


World of Sweets and Sours

by Chelle1117



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-04
Updated: 2011-07-04
Packaged: 2017-10-21 00:39:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/219004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chelle1117/pseuds/Chelle1117
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean, Sam and Castiel travel to Jackson, MS to investigate the disappearance of five women whose names have mythical connections.  While there, they encounter Fael, a dark mysterious stranger who takes a sudden and keen interest in Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	World of Sweets and Sours

Sioux Falls, SD

Dean chugged down the last few sips of his beer, held a fist up to his mouth to cover a belch, then tossed the bottle at the oil drum Bobby used as a trash can outside the garage. Chuckling a little at the satisfying shattering of glass, he leaned back against the windshield. The summer sun beat down on the shiny black paint job, piercing his eyes even through his lids. The heated metal felt good against the back of his legs, though, and he sighed.

"Thought I'd find you out here," Sam said from his right.

"Can't get anything by you, huh?"

The blackness behind his eyelids deepened, and Sam whispered from directly over him, "Could you ever?"

Dean opened his eyes and gave him an ironic glare. "Was a time, once," he said with affection, smacking Sam's bicep.

Sam grinned, hazel eyes flashing. "Maybe twice." He held up another beer.

Dean pulled a face that could have been a denial, but was more like a concession. "What's up?" he asked, taking the bottle and opening it.

"You bored?" Sam asked, looking around, his eyes squinting beneath too-long bangs. "I mean, I can leave you to your special brand of bliss if you want."

Dean waved him on. "Nah. You've got something. What is it?"

Sam sighed and leaned against the Impala's fender. "Think I've got us a case."

"Wow. Really?" Dean asked, rolling his eyes. He wondered briefly if it was ever going to be possible to catch a break. He sat up and slid over to the edge of the hood and rested his feet on the bumper. "Been a while for a regular old salt and burn," he said, shoving Sam's shoulder.

Sam slapped at Dean's arm and settled against the fender of the car and casually leaned into Dean's side. "Didn't say that," Sam huffed a laugh, then grew serious. "Don't think we'll ever get another one of those again," he said, looking out over the roofs of abandoned cars into the distance, and sighed.

Dean took a sip of his beer and thought about Sam's comment, understanding. Saving people, hunting thing—the family business—wasn't just a job for them anymore. Over the last few years, it had grown into _destiny_ —epic, global. Exhausting. Everything they did anymore seemed to have the fate of the world hinging on the outcome. Dean was tired of it. He knew now, following that last comment, that Sam was too.

Sam looked up at him. "No. This one's weird."

Dean arched a brow. "Define weird."

"Lunar deities, weird?" Sam turned around to him, forehead wrinkled in consternation. "I mean, I can't be sure, but it's an awful coincidence."

Dean nodded. "Okay. What coincidence?"

Sam opened his mouth to reply, but Dean stopped him by curling his fingers over Sam's mouth. "Just gimme the deets, Sam. What're we dealin' with?" He raised his brows in question, waiting for Sam to nod.

"Girls going missing. Five in the last three weeks. Nothing in common. Not ages, professions, schools, gyms, nothing. They don't look alike; they're not in the same neighborhood. Just two things."

"Place where they disappeared has to be one of them," Dean said.

"Right. They all went missing from the same place. And all of their names have to do with lunar deities."

"You mean moon goddesses," Dean said, dread filtering through his tone.

"Exactly." Sam nodded once.

"More gods?" Dean groaned. "I gotta say, Sammy, I'm over dealing with deities, minor or major."

Sam leveled a look at him, pursing his lips. Dean knew what he was thinking, and agreed. Fucking destiny. He shook his head. "What are you thinking? Please don't tell me some pagan god is getting hungry again."

"To be honest, I'm totally stumped. That's why," Sam said, sucking in a breath, "we should go check it out."

"You're stumped, and you still think we should check it out?" Dean asked, wary.

"Saving people, hunting things. Isn't that what you told me?"

Dean shrugged, inexplicably angry. "Like that's all we do anymore."

"Well. We could save these girls, Dean. And while we're at it, get rid of the thing that's hunting them."

Dean sighed, and rand a hand through his hair, tugging a bit at the longer strands. "Yeah. All right." He hopped down from the hood. "Where we headed?"

"Jackson, Mississippi." Sam pointed at the back of the house. "Bags are already packed."

*****

The atmosphere in the bar thumped with the bass of the music coming through the speakers—huge black blocks of sound, pulsing with the beat of classic rock and country and blues. Bodies were lined up, moving in orchestrated pandemonium, chasing the beat and riding the rhythm when they found it, slick boots sliding across shiny hardwood, skirts flaring out wide from slim hips. Peals of laughter and shouts of joy whispered behind the music.

The man behind the bar smiled slowly, feeling the energy of the crowd infect him. A tap on the bar a few feet away drew him over. Sliding a clean towel over a fresh glass, he asked, "What'll ya have?"

"Whatever's on draft and a shot of JD!" the guy shouted over the music, then turned back to the crowd to watch the pretty, if a bit heavy, blonde girl he'd been chattin' up all night. "She's a whiskey girl," he said with a smile.

"Comin' up." The bartender turned to the bottles behind him as he grabbed a shot glass.

It never ceased to amaze him, the way people poisoned themselves every night—and worse on the weekends—for a brief moment of freedom. They lived lives, he'd learned, of quiet desperation. Working day in and day out for just enough so that they didn't crumble under the weight of all the _stuff_ they owned. Huge trucks, flashy cars, phones that held every bit of personal information about them and their friends, that could surf the web and tell them what they had for breakfast and what they would be doing three weeks from right this very moment. And to get away from it all, to give themselves the illusion of absolute liberty, they drowned themselves in whiskey and beer, in sex and violence, in music.

He'd been around these parts for the better part of a century, and some things, he'd noticed, really never changed. When he'd first arrived in Mississippi, the century had just turned. Old grudges and hard feelings were tangible in the air. The segregation of communities—of the haves and have nots—was like a knife-edge in the towns he'd lived in. Never, in all the time he'd been around, had he seen true integration of peoples. And it was worse here than in nearly every other land he'd occupied. Here in this little corner of the world, in some of the most beautiful environments the world had to offer, people were consumed and obsessed with the myriad of inconsequential factors that made them different from each other. Factors like possessions, skin color, creed, and political persuasion.

He had existed for eons before settling down in the southeastern U.S. He'd wandered the world for centuries before finally hearing the music of these people. His profession, his vocation, was music, and there had been a time when he had been inspired by all the glories of Heaven. He thought when he left it behind, that he'd never feel the soul stirring notes again, never know what it meant to create something so vital that it made people oblivious to the plights of their lives. Never thought he'd hear or create anything again that moved listeners to sublime heights of ecstasy or the hellish throes of sadness.

And in Mississippi, the place he decided to call home over a century ago, former slaves and their children, and their children's children still lived in shanties but made a music that spilled out their souls and the souls of their ancestry. It was a music that, for the first time in centuries, called to that part of him. He knew what it meant to be a slave, to be controlled and compelled to do one thing.

As he pulled the draft, tipping the glass and letting the pale brew slide down the sides, he smiled. Freedom was a beautiful thing, he knew. And the freedom to lament one's circumstances was bliss.

He slid the glass down the bar to the patron , tossed him a few bills to cover the charge and a hefty tip, then was gone, lost in the throng of people.

"Three beers, something dark, don't care what. And a bottle of Jack." This from a new customer, one who had lined up next to the previous one and had waited patiently, as though he had all the time in the world. Careful green eyes kept a constant, slow vigil on the rest of the bar, as though the young man was looking for something—or someone.

"Guinness?" He asked.

The stranger pulled a face. "Ugh. No. Prefer it if my beer tasted like beer, not, ya know, mulch."

He laughed, saying, "All right. Sam Adams, it is."

"That'll work."

While he dug in the cooler behind the bar for three bottles, he took in the stranger's appearance. The guy was definitely new to the area, and from the looks of him, wasn't planning on staying long. "Not from around here, are you?"

"No," came the short but not unfriendly reply.

"Got a name?" he asked, setting the beers on a tray and turning back to snag an unopened bottle of Jack.

The stranger gave him a once over, eyes roving down his body and back up, a quick inventory of his person, nothing more, nothing less, but he felt as if he'd just been stripped bare and laid open. It wasn't entirely unpleasant. "I do," the guy said, again, a quick answer conveying absolutely nothing.

He put the unopened bottle of Jack on the tray. "I'm Fael, your local bartender and part time head shrink to the drunk and despondent," he said. "If that helps any."

"Fell? Kind of a weird name," the stranger said with a crooked half-smile, and dug in his jacket for his wallet.

Fael laughed at the mispronunciation, shaking his head. "Close enough, I guess. Got to have sensitive ears to pick it up straight away. It's a nickname and less embarrassing than my full name," Fael said.

"And what's that?" the guy said, thumbing through the bills in his wallet.

Fael waved him off. "State secret. If I told ya, well, I'd have to kill ya." He flashed a dangerous grin. "Besides, why should I tell you mine when you won't tell me yours?" He leaned on the bar, arms folded over each other and cocked a flirty eyebrow.

The customer eyed him, measuring him, Fael could tell. He kept his expression light, his smile never wavering. Finally, the guy relented. "Brad," he said, holding out a hand. "Brad Whitford."

Fael hummed at the lie, but let it go. He learned a long time ago to let people keep their secrets, if they had them. "Nice to meet you, Brad," he said and straightened up to offer his hand in greeting. The man gave a solid handshake, callused palms and stiff knuckles that raised questions in Fael's mind, but his bright green eyes never left Fael's.

Fael pointed over his shoulder to the register behind him. "You want me to run you a tab?"

Blinking, 'Brad' looked down at his open wallet, then over his shoulder to a table where two other men sat in what looked like tense conversation.

The taller one sat back, and Fael frowned. He'd know the expression on the other man's face anywhere. What in the world was Castiel doing on Earth with two mortals? He gave this stranger a more thorough investigation. There was a weariness around this man's eyes, an experience that was more than sexual or intellectual. The tightness around his mouth belied more than a passing acquaintance with betrayal. No wonder he lied about who he was. No doubt, he'd trusted one too many people with his real name and been burned for the lapse. Then there was the shadow of grief and guilt that darkened his eyes. He flirted openly and honestly, but the guilt and regret kept him distant. The calluses on his palms started to make a little more sense, as well as the scars on his knuckles. This guy had been around the block in a number of different ways. Still, Fael wondered why Castiel was hanging around this plane of existence with a couple of guys who looked as though they'd been rode real hard and put away wet.

'Brad' sighed, "Might as well," he said, "I think we're gonna be here a while." He turned back to Fael with a small smile and tucked his wallet away.

Fael, intrigued now, returned the smile, a slow curve of his lips. "Will do." Pulling the towel off his shoulder to wipe the bar down, he watched long fingers curl around the necks of the beer bottles and said, "Let me know if you need anything else."

'Brad' ducked his head, a little shy move that surprised Fael because up to that point, this stranger had oozed confidence and cockiness with every word and movement. Even the sly curve of his smile spoke of experience and not a lot of discrimination. To see him dodge Fael's gaze at that last comment was intriguing. Swagger in spades, but also shy. Fael watched him walk across the bar with his liquor, and when 'Brad' turned back around to offer a quick wave, he chuckled. "Gotchya."

*****

Dean looked over his shoulder at the bartended who continued to watch him as he progressed through the maze of tables and chairs back to the table where Cas and Sam sat waiting for him. He clunked the three bottles down, then dropped the whiskey bottle down in the center of the table. Sam grabbed one of the bottles. "Took you long enough, Dean. What? Can't you put off getting laid for a minute?"

Dean held his hands up. "Back off, Sammy. There were no girls, just a...chatty bartender."

Sam's eyebrows rose. "Chatty bartender, really?" He turned to look over Dean's shoulder at the bar. "Was she hot?"

"He was okay, I guess," Dean said with a roll of his eyes.

Sam turned back to him, brows still high. "He?"

"Shut it, Sam." Dean looked over at Cas, whose imperturbable gaze met his own. He shrugged. "Plus there were people in front of me."

Sam glared for a moment, then shook his head and muttered, "Whatever," as he turned back to his lap top.

Dean sniffed. "Find anything?"

Sam typed a bit on his computer then looked up, grabbed a sip of beer. He turned the computer around to Dean. "Chandra Massood, twenty-two, was the first to go missing. She'd been working the second shift as a cardiac nurse at Central Mississippi Medical center. She was supposed to show up, after two days off, for the midnight shift, but she never made it in. Cops have questioned her friends and family, but can't find any reason she should be gone."

"No boyfriend? Parties? Casual hookups?"

"None of that. She and her friends had gone out to a club on the last night of her 2nd shift rotation. They'd all been drinking pretty heavily, but she was the designated driver, so their memories of that night out are vague and not really reliable. One friend did say Chandra had been talking to some guy at the bar, but there's no other mention of that guy. Police have nothing to go on."

"So she just disappeared off the face of the planet?"

Sam huffed. "Apparently so."

"Yeah, right. What else you got? Anything that sheds some light? You know, gives us a place to start?"

Cas spoke up at this. "We know that who or whatever is taking the women is a lunar worshipper. All of the girls names are directly related to different religious names for the moon." Off Dean's 'duh' look, Cas sighed. "This narrows the pool of suspects significantly, Dean."

"And how much narrowing is that, Cas? I mean, do you have an idea as to who it might be?"

Cas pursed his lips. "No. But I can tell you what it is _not_."

"That's...well, that's helpful, Cas. In a way that's really not." He turned back to Sam. "What about the other girls? You find anything they have in common yet?"

"I'm still looking into that, but two of them were musicians."

Cas turned to Sam. "Musicians?"

Frowning, Sam said, "Yeah. Why? Does that make a difference?"

"It might," Cas replied, then with a significant look at Dean, disappeared.

Dean closed his eyes, jaw clenched. "I really hate it when he does that."

Sam sat back in his chair. "Yeah. Me, too." He ran a hand through his hair. "Here. Look through what I've found," he said, and slid the computer across the table to Dean. "I'm thinking we need to talk to the friends. It wouldn't surprise me if they'd been, I don't know, whammied by something. You know, whatever is doing this is covering his or her tracks with some hinky mojo."

Dean glanced up at him. "Yeah. I mean, to not have any leads at all? Not a name or a location. That smacks of evil son of a bitch to me. Probably either dosing the friends up on some supernatural love juice, or just wiping their memories," Dean said, scanning the article Sam gave him. "Why can't they make our job just that much easier and _not_ try so hard to cover their tracks."

"Nature of the beast, I guess."

Dean shut the computer. "So. Which one of the friends are we going to talk to first?"

"Chandra's friend," Sam said, glancing down at his notes, "Lena, is where we need to start. She was at the club with Chandra after the others left. Lena was waiting for Chandra to take her home and called the cops when Chandra never came out. She also was the one who talked to the bartender that Chandra had been chatting with."

"So this Lena has a description of the guy?"

"This is where it gets weird. She said, according to the article, that she couldn't remember what he looked like. She had a clear picture of him in her head, but when she tried to describe him to the sketch artists, the same image kept coming up."

"Let me guess, average looking white guy, no distinguishing marks or tattoos, and looks like every other anonymous Tom, Dick, or Harry in this town."

"Well, yes," Sam nodded. "Except not white."

"Black guy?"

"Nope. Middle eastern."

"Well, okay. That should narrow it down," Dean said smiling.  
"You'd think so. But not so much. 'Average middle eastern male' twinged me as odd, because Chandra's middle Eastern, so I did a little digging."

"Why?" Dean asked.

"You've heard of that phenomenon in giving descriptions? People tend not to distinguish the subtle differences in faces of other races," Sam explained.

"Like, if you're a white guy who sees a guy from another race committing a crime, the description you give isn't really accurate?"

"Yes, exactly. Usually, it happens when witnesses are describing _other_ races, but I checked all the statements from friends of the missing women. Two of the women were white, two were Middle Eastern descent, and one was black."

"So the friends all described a general face," Dean hypothesized, nodding.  
"Exactly. But instead of the general face of a person outside their race, it was the average face of someone who would be familiar to them." Sam said.

"So this guy, or whatever, makes himself blend in so well that the victim's friends can't accurately identify him?" Dean sighed, "That sucks."

"Yeah," Sam agreed, taking a sip of his beer. "It would if that were the case, but I don't think it is. Because all of the witness who gave a description said that the sketch, when completed, looked nothing like the man they'd seen. So here's what I'm thinking."

"Oh," Dean said, waving him on, "do enlighten me."

"Funny. I think the guy doesn't make any special effort to hide or cover up his appearance. I think he does something else. He makes it impossible for people to describe him in anything but the most general terms."

"So he gets into their heads?"

Sam nodded. "And stays there, like, he messes with the workings of their brain, causes a..I don't know...a misfire between what they see in their heads and what they can say."

"That's a pretty specific ability there, Sam. Not too many monsters we know of can do that."

"I know. So now we know it's something that we haven't come up against before." Sam sat back in his chair and rested his hands on his thighs.

Dean squinted at him. "Tell me again why I let you talk us into coming down here."

Sam chuckled. "Sorry?"

"Meh, whatever," Dean said, downing another swig of beer. He, too, leaned back in his chair. "Maybe Cas will find something to shed some light on the situation."

"Maybe," Sam said as he scanned the bar, looking, Dean supposed, for the restrooms. "I'm...I'll be back in a bit." He shoved his chair back and headed off toward the back of the bar. Dean sighed, scrubbed a hand over his face, and went over what Sam had found.

"They left you alone?" A voice to his left said.

Dean glanced up, startled, then sighed out a little laugh when he saw who stood next to him. "Yeah. Cas is...well, he just comes and goes as he pleases. And my brother's in the john. He'll be back in a bit."

The bartended set three shot glasses on the table. "You took off with the bottle but without these. Thought I'd bring 'em to you."

"Hey, thanks, man." Dean watched him set the glasses down with deliberate slowness. There was something hypnotic in the refraction of light in the angles of the cuts in the glass. Flashes of red and blue, green and yellow. Dean reached out for one of the glasses and rolled it between his palms.

When the bartender didn't move, Dean looked up at him and met the man's intense gaze. He blinked, then waved at the seat across the table from himself. "Have a seat."

The guy pulled out a chair. "Thanks," he said, then cracked open the bottle and took the glass from Dean's hands to pour him a shot. "So everything else okay?"

Dean shrugged and took the glass. He looked into the amber liquid, and took a breath, letting it out slowly before downing the shot with ease. "As good as it can be, I guess," he replied, sliding the glass further onto the table.

"That doesn't sound promising," the man said.

Dean shook his head and gave a short grunt. "Learned a long time ago, things promised don't always come true." He fixed the man across from him with a questioning stare. "You told me your name at the bar, but remind me."

"My name's Fael," he said and poured another shot before sitting back and crossing his arms over his chest.

"Fell, that's right." Dean replied and watched the light gleam off the smooth dark skin of his arms.

"Not _quite_ right, again," Fael gave him a smile.

"What? Am I not saying it right or something?"

"Hmm."

Dean glanced up at the noncommittal sound to find amber eyes watching him from beneath black winged brows. He hadn't noticed at the bar how good looking Fell was. "Damn," he said, frowning. "You're kinda hot for a guy."

Fell laughed, startled. "Thanks, I guess."

Dean waved a hand. "Nah. Hot is hot, I always say. I mean-" He frowned and wiped his hand over his face. "Shit. I don't...what the hell?"

Fael just watched him, sly smile stretching across his full lips. "What?"

"'S one thing to think something, whole other thing to say it," Dean said.

"Don't worry about it. I get it all the time."

Dean laughed out loud. "Yeah? I imagine so, looking like you do," he said, eyes roaming over Fell's face. He had high cheekbones and a strong jaw; full lips smiled widely beneath a broad, straight nose. A thin line of hair traced the line of his top lip and curved down to a slightly fuller, neatly groomed patch of hair on his chin. Thick black lashes framed those amber eyes that Dean just knew were laughing at him. He figured he might as well give Fell a reason to laugh. "That's okay, so do I."

Fael threw his head back and laughed. Dean watched the movement of his throat.

Settling back down, Fael scooted up to the table and rested his arms on the surface. "I can certainly see that about you." He poured Dean another shot and slid the glass over to him. "Maybe," he whispered conspiratorially, "we should stick together."

Dean took the glass and swallowed it down. "Can't see why not."

"You said you weren't from around here, back at the bar," Fael said.

"Nope. Born in Kansas. Haven't lived there for a..." Dean sighed. "Haven't lived there for a long time," he finished, voice going quiet and low, sad.

"Where do you live now?"

Dean frowned. He didn't usually share so much about himself, but this guy was pulling stuff out of him so easily, it was like the conversation was meant to happen. "South Dakota. It's not home, exactly, but we've got a place to catch our breath."

"We?"

"Me and my brother. Other than that, I guess home is sittin' out in the parkin' lot. My baby," Dean said, smiling. "She's a thing of beauty. Thought I'd lost her a time or two, but..well, she's like me, I guess. Takes a lickin' and just...damn. She keeps on."

"So, what brings a hot stranger like yourself down to the delta?"

Dean sighed and sat back. "Work."

Fael pinned him with a questioning gaze. "Work?" he asked, skeptical. "What line of work are you in?"

Dean rolled his empty glass in his palms again. He debated just excusing himself from the conversation and going to find Sam, but there was something about this guy, something that made Dean just damn the consequences. He started talking. "My brother and I, we're investigators, sort of. We're workin' a case. Fuckin' weird one, too, and that's saying something, considering what our lives have been like up to this point."

"Oh? Do tell."

And there was something seductive in Fael's voice. It was subtle, and Dean glanced up at him, measuring, looking for something sinister but not finding it. "Hmm," he said, then cocked an eyebrow at Fael. "State secret. If I told ya..."

"You'd have to kill me?"

Dean pointed at him. "Exactly."

Fael leaned closer. "Gonna let you in on a little secret of my own. Come here," he said.

Dean sniffed and leaned in, arms folded on the table. "What?"

Fael scanned the bar quickly before settling his eyes back on Dean. "I've been around the block a time or two myself. I'm not that easy to kill." He leaned further over the table, into Dean's personal space. "But you're more than welcome to try," he cocked a teasing brow, "Brad."

Dean swallowed, picking up on the invitation. "Dean," he whispered, before he could stop himself. He frowned down at the glass in front of him.

Fell frowned. "What?"

Dean picked up the glass and twirled it, letting the light catch on the remnant drops of amber liquid in the corner of the glass. "Dean. It's my name," he said, then speared Fell with an unfocused glare. "But you knew it wasn't Brad."

Fael blinked slowly then nodded.

Dean squinted his eyes, his vision going blurry all of a sudden. He started panting. "What did you do to me?"

Fell reached across the table and laid his hand on Dean's arm. "It's okay, Dean. You'll be okay."

Dean started to struggle, pulled his arm back and tried to stand up, but his arms and legs wouldn't obey what his brain was telling them. He searched the bar for Sam but couldn't see him anywhere. Dean started to worry about what was happening to him.

Fael moved into the seat next to him, and Dean shoved back into his own seat, trying to put some distance between the two of them. When Fael reached out to touch him, Dean batted his hand away with a slow swipe of his arm. He wanted to punch the guy in the face, but his fist was loose, and he couldn't see straight.

"Don't do that. I'm not going to hurt you." Fael spoke to him in a calm tone and reached out to him, laying a smooth brown palm on Dean's shoulder. "You're just going to fall asleep, but we need to get you out of here, so you'll be more comfortable." He stood up and grabbed Dean's arm to help him stand up as well. "I've got a place, not far from here. I'm going to put you to bed. Then we'll talk more in the morning."

Dean couldn't help but do as Fell told him, and in short order he was being ushered to the back of the bar, a strong arm at his waist guiding him through the crowd.. He again looked for Sam, hoping he'd be able to signal his brother and Sam would get him out of this. He finally caught sight of Sam standing at the end of the bar, grabbing two more beers as he put something in his pocket, a smile on his face. "Sam," he said, but it came out as a whisper. Sam must have sensed him, because he looked up suddenly, and the last thing Dean saw as he left the bar was Sam barreling through the meager crowd, racing to the back of the bar. Then blackness.

*****

Sam burst through the door he just watched some stranger drag Dean through. It opened to an alley, and he ran toward the street, shouting for Dean as he went, but there was no sign of his brother or of the man who had dragged him out of the bar. He got to the street and searched the sidewalk in both directions, but again, Dean was nowhere to be found. It was like he'd disappeared into thin air.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me!" He shouted, sliding his hands through his hair. He saw a guy coming down the sidewalk and grabbed his arm.

"What the hell?" The guy tried to snatch his arm back. "Get your hands off me, buddy!"

Sam ignored him. "You didn't see a big black guy carrying another guy coming this way did you?"

The guy shoved Sam away. "No! Now leave me the hell alone, you crazy fuck."

Sam held up a hand, "I'm not-" but the guy was already moving down the sidewalk again after flipping him the bird.

"Ah, come on! Dean!" He shouted again. The people on the sidewalk glared and circled around him. "Sorry, sorry," he muttered and started walking back toward the alley and the bar door. "Dammit!"

His footsteps echoed lonely in the alley, and once he cleared the door back into the bar, he made a beeline for the table where he, Dean and Cas had been sitting. He hoped to find something that would give him a lead on who had taken Dean. The table hadn't been cleared yet; their three bottles still stood on the surface, puddles of condensation pooling at their bases. The bottle of whiskey had been opened, and there was a wet shot glass in the middle of the table next to two others that, upon further inspection, were dry.

Dean had been the only one drinking.

Sam picked up the glass and held it up to his nose. Nothing but the pungent smell of Jack Daniels. Collecting the three shot glasses and the opened bottle, Sam went to the bar.

In the time he'd taken to chase Dean and his captor out into the alley and further into the street, the bar had filled up, and now the patrons were lined up three deep along the end of the bar, waiting on service. Sam elbowed his way to the front of the line, smiling politely at the women he shoved out of the way, and growling at a few of the guys who thought to complain at his intrusion.

He slammed the bottle up on the hard wood of the bar and slapped the surface with his hand. It stung, but the way the bartender jumped at the clap of sound was more than satisfying. "Hey! What did you give my brother?"

The bartender frowned and muttered a barely discernible, "Fuck you, man," and Sam gave him a grim smile before jumping over the bar and shoving the guy up against the bar shelves.

"I realize you're a little swamped right now, but I really don't give a shit. You're gonna answer my questions, or I'm gonna beat you until you forget your own name. Get me?"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever man," they guy eked out from behind Sam's hand wrapped around his throat.

"Good. Now, when did you come on duty? Because you weren't the guy behind the bar when my brother and I got here."

"My shift started about thirty minutes ago, dude." The guy looked around for help, but Sam just pressed him more firmly against the shelves.

"Okay. So, thirty minutes. Where did the other guy go?"

"How the fuck should I know? He finished up his shift and left. Last I saw, he was headed across the bar with some shot glasses. I got busy behind the bar and haven't seen him since."

"What's his name?"

"What?"

Sam took a deep, calming breath. "I'm going with the possibility that it's this other bartender who made off with my brother, seeing as how I found a wet glass, a half gone bottle of booze, and two empty shot glasses where my brother and I were sitting. Since you just said you saw the guy with three glasses heading to my table, I'm guessing I'm right. So. What is this guy's name?"

The guy clenched his lips shut in mute resistance until Sam shook him by the collar. "Okay, okay! We call him Fael. He's never told us his real name."

Sam cocked his head threateningly.

"No! Really. I mean, he owns the place, has for years. But we, I mean, his employees, don't really know anything about him. Just...he goes by Fael." The bartender was looking around frantically now for some assistance.

"Fell," Sam said, "His name is Fell?"

"F-a-e-l. Fael," the guy said, "yeah." He cleared his throat.

Sam grew thoughtful, eyes squinted in concentration.

"Um, can ya let me go now? I mean, the shelves are biting into my ass, man, and I think I'm leaning on shattered glass."

Sam glanced down at the shelf and winced, then he let go and backed away from the bartender. "Sorry."

Carefully checking the condition of his ass, the bartender said absently, "Look. I'm sure your brother is fine. Fael's a bit of a loner and all, but he's not a bad guy. If he took your brother, then more than likely, your brother was going willingly, if you know what I mean."

Sam glared at him. "Are you trying to piss me off? Because it's working. And I see some glass that hasn't shattered yet."

"What? No! Just, well, Fael's not the guy who needs to snatch people."

Sam nodded. "Right. Well. How long you known this guy? A couple of years? I've know my brother my whole life. There's no _way_ he's leaving a bar voluntarily with some strange dude without telling me. Where would they go?"

"Dude, who knows? Fael's not one for partyin' with his employees. None of us know where he lives."

"Everybody's got an address," Sam said.

"Well, if he does, he don't keep it here."

"Dammit." Sam rubbed his forehead. "Fine. Fine. I'll...shit." Shaking his head he muttered, "I'll have to find it another way."

"Whatever, just, could you do it away from here? You're freakin'' out the regulars."

Sam rolled his eyes and dug out some bills to pay the tab that he, Dean and Cas had run up. "Here. I'm settling up." He pulled out a pen and wrote his number on a napkin. "If you see Fael or my brother, call this number."

The bartender picked up the napkin, scanned the number written on it, then crumpled it into his pocket. "Yeah, sure. Whatever you say, dude."

Sam opened his mouth, ready to compel the guy a bit more, but then just shook his head before turning away and heading out of the bar.

The hinges squeaked behind him as the door shut. Standing under the awning, he sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves and just _think_ about the situation. The rain that had been threatening when they all stopped in at the bar was pissing down onto the street, making the amber glow from the streetlight reflect in broken patterns from the asphalt. There were a few patrons of the street's bars staggering against each other and laughing in the rain. Sam shivered, inexplicably cold in the Mississippi summer humidity. "Dammit, Dean," he whispered, "What the hell were you thinking?"

He waited for several cars to go past him before ducking his head against the rain and heading to the Impala. The rain hitting the sidewalk covered nearly all the sounds of the night, so that even though he could see people laughing around him, he couldn't hear them. It was like walking in an echoing hell, no sound penetrating the sibilant hiss, and he was left alone with his racing thoughts. When he shut himself in the car, the silence was deafening.

The rustle of wind was the only warning he got before Cas spoke from the passenger seat. "Where is Dean?"

Sam leaned his head back against the headrest. "I have no clue, Cas. He just left with the bartender. No word about why or how long he'd be gone."

"You're worried about him," Cas stated, staring out the windshield.

"Well, yeah! I mean, he doesn't do this. Not since..."

"I know. It is not like him to disappear without word. That was more your thing." Cas turned and pinned Sam with that calm objective look, as though assassinating Sam's character was merely an afterthought, not worthy of noting.

"Oh. Okay. Wow." Sam shook his head, stunned. Then he said, "Sometimes I think you say things like that to see how I'll respond. I mean, I thought we were past you thinking of me as...what did you call me? An abomination."

Cas turned back to staring out the windshield. "I don't know what you mean."

"I think you've been around humanity too long, Cas." Sam shot him a glance out the corner of his eye. "You're getting far too good at lying." He turned back to the road. "You know exactly what I mean. Yes. I took off a few times a couple of years ago and didn't let anyone know where I was or why I was going. But I thought...I was told I was doing that for the right reasons." He slammed a fist down on the steering wheel and frowned. "I thought you understood that. Understood how damned sorry I am for...well, for everything." Here he turned to look at Cas, "But I guess not." Sighing, he finished, "Dean's not...he just left, Cas. Just walked out of the bar with some guy and didn't even turn back to tell me he was leaving."

Cas was quiet, thoughts shifting his brow into a frown and pursing his lips. Finally he turned to Sam. "I don't...I was not pointing out flaws, Sam. I was merely...making an observation—a comparison between you and your brother." He paused, then looked over at Sam. "You're not an abomination, Sam." A beat of silence, then, "I apologize if you feel maligned by my comment."

Sam shook his head. "I don't, not really. I'm just...I'm worried."

"That is understandable."

"What? You're not worried about him?"

Cas seemed to almost laugh. "It's Dean, Sam," he said fondly. "When am I not worried about him?"

"Hm. True. I used to wonder if he has some kind of Teflon that kept him out of trouble. I mean, with the way he...Ya know what? Never mind."

"He seems to spread himself quite thin; I have observed." Cas looked at him, confused.

They grew quiet, each staring out the windshield, thinking. Then Cas spoke. "What do you want to do?"

Sam sighed, then gave a click with his tongue and started the car. "I have the name of the guy who took Dean. We've still got to interview Chandra Massood's friend." He turned the car around and headed back toward the motel they'd agreed on. "We check into the motel; we regroup. Then we work the case."

*****

Dean opened his eyes to unfamiliar light. Used to the morning sounds of Sam in the shower singing some angst ridden alt or indy rock tune terribly off key or to the startling rustle of Cas' wings and the brush of wind against his face, the relative quiet of the morning confused him. He blinked and rubbed his eyes as he yawned himself awake.

He and Sam had gone straight to the bar when they got into town, having been on the road for more than ten hours from South Dakota, so he knew he wasn't in a hotel room. Of course, the lack of bags and Sam's computer told him he wasn't with his brother anymore as well.

He threw off the covers, soft warm bedclothes that he wondered at for a moment, and pulled himself up to sit on the edge of the bed. That's when he noticed he was naked, or mostly naked. He still had on his boxers, but the rest of his clothes were gone. It wasn't every day that Dean woke up naked in a strange bed, but he'd done it a few times, thanks to some really good hooch and a hot chick or two—and there was the one time it was three—so he had routine in case such an event occurred. Granted, he hadn't had to use it for a while, but it wasn't like he could forget it.

He scrubbed a hand through his hair and glanced behind him at the girl he didn't know and would have to find a way to let down gently in the space of about 15 minutes.

He frowned. Pretty girl number one was not behind him.

Now he was awake. Turning back around to face the room, he took inventory of exactly where he was. The room was bright and welcoming, friendly even, but impersonal. Completely different from any of the hotels or motor inns he and Sam frequented. Though those say they're _inviting_ they're really just convenient hovels for illicit activities. And while Dean may have used them for that purpose in the past, and more than likely will again in the future, he wouldn't ever go so far as to call those dank holes of iniquity _warm_.

Across from him, there was a dresser with a lamp and nothing else. The wall to his right had a closet door that was open. The closet was empty except for a random high heeled shoe and several empty hangers. Dean's clothes hung on a hanger on the back of the door. His boots were sitting neatly beside the open closet door. In the corner of that wall and the wall behind him, there stood a chest of drawers. There was a clock—a sunburst of brass surrounding a black face printed with roman numerals. Dean noticed that instead of a "IV" for four, the damn thing had "IIII." He shook his head at that bit of weirdness.

The wall behind him was a bank of windows. Floor to ceiling panes of clear glass let in the morning sunlight. He squinted his eyes against the brightness and turned back to the front of the room. His head started throbbing, reminding him of the events of the previous night.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered.

A knock at the door had him going for his gun, forgetting he was mostly naked. Before he could recover, the door opened and a low voice said, "I hope I'm not waking you up. You've been asleep about ten hours. I have breakfast." The door pushed open wider, and the guy Dean remembered from the bar came walking slowly into the room. "You don't exactly look like the kind of guy who eats breakfast regularly; more the coffee and a cigarette kind of guy, really."

Dean rolled his eyes. "I don't smoke," he said meaningfully. The thought of running from all the evil sons of bitches with his lungs at half capacity had him shaking his head. He looked over at his clothes hanging on the closet door, wishing he'd taken the time to put them on. Instead he was in his boxers with a strange man trying to serve him breakfast.

"Good to know. Anyway, I was making myself some eggs and toast, and I figured you'd like some. If not, I'll take this," he lifted the tray he was holding, "back downstairs."

Dean crossed his arms over his chest and glared, making no move to take the tray.

Fael sighed. "Fine. I'll just leave it here, in case you get hungry later," he said and put the tray on the dresser.

Before he let him leave, Dean wanted some answers. He narrowed his eyes at the guy in front of him. "Where are we? How did I get here?" Dean growled. "What do you want with me?" He figured Sam wasn't with him, and while that might make him nervous, it meant that there was someone out there who would be looking for him. Still, he had to be sure. "And where's Sam? You'd better not have done something to him, you son of a bitch."

Fael held up a hand. "Please. Refrain from the vulgarities. They hurt my ears. I've done nothing to your brother. He's very probably holed up somewhere with your other companion devising a way to find you." He smiled. "But they won't."

"Then you don't know Sammy."

Laughing, Fael shook his head. "Of course I don't." Sobering, he lowered his gaze to Dean. Then, quietly, "But I do know me. You're in my house, outside the city. I brought you here last night. As to why? Well, let's leave some answers for later, yes?" He stood and moved over to where Dean was standing. "Your brother isn't going to find you, Dean. No one will. Scream all you want, fight all you want. You can even try to escape. Trust me when I say you'll be wasting your time." He reached up and gave Dean a condescending pat on the cheek.

Dean tensed, but refused to flinch.

Fael quirked a knowing brow, then turned to go. "You should eat. Keep your strength up." One last parting glance before he exited, and "You're going to need it." Then the door snicked closed behind him.

Dean listened for the click of a lock, but heard nothing. Frowning, he stepped over to check the knob on the door, only to find it unlocked and the hallway empty.

"That's bizarre," he muttered, pulling back into the room and shutting the door.

He glanced over at the tray, hating the way his mouth watered at the sight of the food. He tried to remember the last time he'd eaten but could only conjure up vague memories of a foil-wrapped convenience store burrito he'd had the day before. He eyed the tray suspiciously, tempted, but couldn't put aside the thought that it had been trusting the guy with booze that got him kidnapped in the first place.

"Fuck this," he muttered, and swept the tray off the top of the dresser, watching the eggs and toast fly through the air to land in a mess on the floor. Giving the remains of his so called breakfast one last angry glare, he turned to the closet and pulled his clothes off the hanger and got dressed. Part of him really wanted to shower, but he hadn't got to the point of being able to smell himself yet—despite the long hours in the car without stopping—and he wasn't about to give his kidnapper the satisfaction. Especially when he caught sight of the fresh towel and other toiletries.

Shutting the closet door decisively, he checked his coat pocket for his phone, surprised to find it still there. Either this guy truly was an idiot, or there was a reason Dean still had his phone. He turned it on and thumbed through his contacts until he got to Sam's number. He tried calling and figured out why he still had his phone. The lack of signal bars seemed to mock him. "Dammit, you gotta be kidding me. Son of a bitch." Rolling his eyes, he shoved the phone back into his pocket.

He paced over to the window and scanned the yard—if it could be called that. Nothing but trees and sunlight surrounded the house. There was a small field of grass, maybe ten feet from the back wall to the edge of the trees, and it looked to go all around the house. He figured if he could get beyond the small patch of yard and into the forest, he could make a break for it. Find the nearest highway and head back into town.

He looked for a lock on the window and found it open, like the door, and wondered again at his kidnapper's lack of security. No locked doors; no locked windows. It was like he wanted Dean to try to escape. Well, wanted or not, Dean was going to oblige him. He pulled the window open and crawled through.

It was a short hop down to the ground, and he crouched in the shadow of the roof for a moment, making sure that the guy hadn't heard him climbing out of the house. Seeing no movement from inside the house, he took off across the yard. Not wanting to risk discovery, he kept a low profile, bent at the waist and moving stealthily through the shadows cast by the towering trees of the woods. He started to straighten up as he approached the edge of the woods, and just as he took the step to cross into the shadows of the trees, there was a flash of light, a loud crack of what he thought was thunder, and a searing pain in his head, that made him wince.

When he opened his eyes, he was back in the room, doors and windows closed, the tray of food neat and pristine and sitting on the dresser as though waiting for him to sit down and eat.

"What the hell?"

"I told you, Dean."

Dean spun around and stared, confused and not a little wary, at his kidnapper—who for goddamned sure hadn't been there a second ago. "Seriously. What the hell are you? And why have you brought me here!?"

His captor ignored the question. "You might as well settle in, Dean. You're going to be here for a while. Whether you like it or not." He pointed at the tray on the dresser. "If you're not hungry, that's one thing. But throwing your food like a howler monkey is rude. And it pisses me off."

They stared at each other for a moment. Finally, the man stood again. "Fine. I'll take this back down stairs, if you insist on being stubborn."

"I could eat," Dean said abruptly. "You didn't drug the food, did you?" he asked with a quick glare up at his captor, who was leaning against the edge of the dresser.

"No. Your breakfast is safe to eat."

"You mean like the whiskey last night?" Dean asked, taking the tray to the bed, so he could eat.

"I apologize for last night, though I did not drug you." He shrugged. "Not in the conventional sense."

"Whatever. I'm still here against my will, and you're the son of a bitch who brought me."

"Careful. Insult me again, and you'll see just how much of a 'son of a bitch' I can be."

Dean glanced up, mouth open for a cocky retort, but the hard, cold glint in his captor's eyes, and the stony set of his face shut Dean up.

"And I bet you don't remember my name."

Dean shrugged. "Does it really matter? You have to know, as soon as I'm outta here, you're dead. What do I care what your name is?"

"This is tiresome. You grow tiresome," the man sighed. "My name, again, is Fael." Dean started to speak again, but Fael waved a hand and shook his head. "Don't bother. Just," he headed for the door again. "Eat your breakfast."

Dean looked at the plate in front of him before picking up a fork and shoveling a bit eggs onto it for his first bite. Around the mouthful, he muttered, "Could use some coffee."

Fael chuckled. "Sorry. Don't drink it, so I don't keep it."

"And my gun," Dean said, glaring from under his brow.

Giving him a disinterested shrug, Fael said, "I have juice."

"Fuck you."

"Now, that's not very nice," Fael said, turning to him. "You have your clothes, but I'm afraid I'll be keeping the nickel plated .357. Not sure I trust you with that just yet."

"You're smarter than I thought, considering how you got me here. I figured kidnapping me just made you an idiot."

His captor cocked his head, eyes squinted as he considered Dean for a moment. Then he moved across the room to kneel in front Dean. "You know, Dean, that's not a nice word to use to describe someone."

In the back of Dean's mind was the niggling thought that he should be feeling threatened right then, but Dean wasn't about to let some stranger with an overdeveloped sense of political correctness get him worked up. "Really? Well, I'm not a nice guy."

Fael remained silent, letting his gaze take inventory of Dean's features. Dean sat passive under the examination, letting the guy look his fill. After several minutes, Fael stood and moved slowly to the bedroom door. Then the turned back to face Dean. "You've lived your life a certain way, Dean, and it's written all over you. In the lines of your face, the scars on your hands and the shadows in your eyes. But there are still things in this world which you will never understand." He opened the door, and said, voice low and—for the first time—menacing. "Don't make me be the one to teach you."

Then he was gone, the door closing behind him with a soft _snick_. This time, Dean heard the lock turn.

*****

Sam sat at his computer, empty carry out containers opened on the table behind him. The smell of burnt coffee lingered in the air around him, and he glanced up at the pot he'd made the night before. The dregs sizzled dangerously in the bottom of the carafe, and he shook his head, surprised. He knew he had a tendency to get absorbed in research, a trait Dean had teased him about often, but it had been a few years since he'd gone at it all night with nothing to show for his efforts come the morning.

He took another look at the page he was looking at online, and frowned at its uselessness. Another dead end in a long series of fruitless searches. He and Cas had agreed last night that Sam should look for any information on the guy who had snatched Dean from the bar while Cas went after whatever was snatching up young women. That way, Cas with his angelic mojo would be the one who ended up confronting whatever evil thing they discovered, and Sam wouldn't have to deal with a potentially deadly creature on his own. Frustrated at the futility of his work, Sam blew out a sigh, hoping that Castiel, at least, had found a lead on the case, because it felt like he was just wasting time here at the hotel. There was no information on the guy who'd taken Dean out of the bar, no business license under the name the bartender had given him, no address, not even a driver's license. Hell, the guy just didn't exist! "Dammit, this is pointless," he said and rubbed a hand over his face.

Deciding he needed a break, Sam snatched up the carry out containers and threw them in the trashcan, then swiped up the crumbs and other bits of food from around where he'd been working. A suspicious crackle from the coffee maker was a welcome distraction. It had him up and slapping at the button to turn the machine off. He took out the carafe and ran some warm water into it to keep the sludge from cooking to the bottom of the pot.

Once he got everything cleaned up, he looked down at himself in disgust. Now that he'd picked up his mess, he noticed the stench. He took a tentative whiff of himself and realized he hadn't had a shower since he and Dean had left Bobby's. He thought getting clean might give him a fresh perspective, so he closed his computer and walked over to grab his shaving kit from his duffle.

He turned on the shower as hot as he could stand it to let the bathroom fill up with steam while he stripped out of his three day old clothes. Standing naked at the sink, he swiped a towel over the foggy mirror and stared at himself. Despite not having stopped along the way for basic hygiene, he didn't have too much beard growth on his face. He snorted out a breath, thanking his Campbell genes for not needing daily shaving. Dean, on the other hand, seemed to take after the Winchester side of the family and got downright hairy after a couple of days without shaving. Sam chuckled. Dean may make fun of him for being a sasquatch because of his height, but Dean was the one who got the fur.

Still, he was beginning to itch a little along his jaw line, so he let the steam in the room open up his pores while he brushed his teeth. Then, he lathered up his face and took his time, methodically shaving off what little bit of facial hair he'd accumulated over the last three days. When he was done, he stepped into the shower.

The heat and pressure of the water beat out the kinks in his shoulders from sitting hunched over the computer all night long, and he moaned softly as each cramp and ache seemed to just ebb away under the force of the water. After letting the water work its therapy on his tense body, he paid more attention to actually getting clean. A rigorous scrubbing of his scalp and hair, a quick wash with the hotel soap and a rough wash cloth that left his skin pink and squeaky clean and he was done. He turned off the shower tap and stepped out of the tub, dried off, then wrapped a towel around his waist and headed back into the room, rubbing his head with another towel.

"Hello, Sam," Cas said, and Sam nearly jumped out of his skin.

Relaxed and comfortable as he was, he hadn't noticed Cas standing quietly at the window. "Jesus, Cas! Warn a guy, next time you're coming!" Sam said and sped over to his duffle bag, rifling through it for some clothes.

"I apologize," Cas said quietly, and turned back to the window.

Sighing, Sam sat down on the bed, his previous urgency to get dressed abated. "It's okay," he said and finished toweling his hair. "Dean and I were going to talk to Chandra's friends today. Maybe we could get more information than the cops did when they interviewed them. You should see the descriptions these women gave. This guy is covering his tracks with some kind of mystical glamour or something. I thought maybe some straightforward yes or no questions would be a better tactic than the normal interrogation." He stopped toweling his hair and dropped it on the bed next to him. "Did you find out anything?

Cas looked over his shoulder at Sam, his eyes tracing over the tanned, damp skin still pink from the shower. Sam could almost feel the glide of Cas' gaze over his flesh. "Cas?"

"I found a name," Cas whispered. "Not that it helps any, but it's more than what we had before."

Sam's eyes went wide. "A name? Honestly, Cas, that's better than I expected for just one night. I thought maybe a location or a description, but a name is, honestly, a lot better than both of those." He stood up and tugged on a pair of cotton boxers beneath the towel, then yanked the towel off. Stepping into the jeans he'd pulled out of his duffle, he said, "At least with a name I can hunt down some identification, get an address." He sucked in a breath, pulling his torso taut to fasten the fly on his jeans, then put his hands on his hips. "So, what's the name?"

Cas came across the room to stand in front of Sam. "You said last night that I do things to see how you'll respond."

Sam caught an aborted movement out of the corner of his eye and focused there to see Cas' hand was curled into a fist. "Yeah," he said, curious.

"I..." Cas sighed, then looked up into Sam's eyes. "I sometimes wonder the same thing about you."

Frowning, Sam asked, "What do you mean?"

"Your brother and I," Cas started.

Sam rolled his eyes and turned back to the bed to snatch up his t-shirt. "Yes. I know. You and Dean have a _profound bond_." He tugged the shirt over his head and chest, jerking the material down around his waist. "You don't have to remind me," he said, running his hands over his damp hair, to push it off his face. Then he reached for the plaid button down.

"Yes, your brother and I share a connection, that's true. But he is not the only Winchester with whom I feel a closeness."

Sam paused in putting on his shirt. "What?"

Cas smiled, just a small lifting at the corners of his mouth, but the warmth in his eyes shone out brightly. "You are much like your brother, whether you like it or not. Neither of you think very much of yourselves."

"How do you mean?"

"He resisted the idea that he was anything special. Still does. Dean lives his life as though he's not worthy of reward. Everything he does is for others because he feels he deserves nothing. You are much the same. You, Sam Winchester, are as wracked with guilt as your martyred brother." He chuckled a bit. "You perhaps deserve that guilt more so than he does, but you are also so much stronger than the hosts of Heaven _and_ Hell give you credit for."

Sam shrugged the shirt up over his shoulders and buttoned it as he sat down. "Oh. Well." He cleared his throat before glancing up at Cas. "I don't know about that."

"I do." Cas lifted his head, haughty and proud. "I once called you an abomination. I meant it, then. You were drowning in demon blood and trying to hide it. But you managed to harness Lucifer and save the world from the apocalypse. How can I think you are anything other than what you are?"

Sam nodded, thoughtful. "Okay. So what did you mean when you wondered if I do things to see how you'll respond?"

Cas turned away and went back to the window. "I am unaccustomed to seeing you unclothed. I was...surprised."

Sam smiled to himself. "So. You think I'm hot."

Cas turned frustrated eyes on him. "I don't know what that means."

"It's okay, Cas. I won't tell Dean."

"What does Dean have to do with it?" Cas asked confused.

"Oh," Sam said, startled. "I just...well, I thought you and Dean were, you know, _you and Dean_."

Cas shook his head. "You speak in redundancies. Sometimes I truly wonder if I will ever understand either one of you."

"You mean, you and Dean _aren't_ together?"

"Of course not. I'm here with you. He's missing. How can he and I be together?"

"Cas," Sam chuckled, "I mean, are you and Dean, like, in a relationship?"

There was an audible sigh, and Sam went over to stand next to Cas. "It's okay if you are. That's cool. To be honest, we, Bobby and I, thought you and Dean were...close."

"We are close. We are not, however, in a relationship. Not as you would define it."

"You sound pissed."

"This is one aspect of humanity I simply do not understand. Your incessant need to quantify and define everything between individuals. Am I in a relationship with your brother? Yes. I've touched his soul. I know the very intimate and integral parts of him. I know what he _is_ at the very core of his being. I know what he is made of and what he is capable of. But he will not share that with me willingly." Cas turned to Sam. "And I know you. In much the same way."

Sam laughed. "What? You've never touched my soul." Then soberly, "Have you?"

"No."

"I didn't think so."

Cas rolled his eyes. "But I know what you are without one. You could say I've felt the absence of your soul, and it was just as revealing."

"You mean before...when I was....not..."

"Yes."

"Oh."

Silence fell, and they both stared out the window for a moment. Then Sam asked, "So you and Dean aren't..."

"We are not."

There was a stiffness, a tension, in Cas that Sam had never seen in him before. He didn't know if it had always been there, and he just hadn't noticed it, or if it was something new. What he did know was that he wanted to be the one to ease it. He wanted Cas relaxed and comfortable, not on this edge of the unknown. He swallowed, the bitter lump of apprehension going down hard, and raised his hand to lay it on Cas' shoulder. "You want to, though," he said.

The tension drained away from Cas as though his strings to Heaven had been cut. "I want many things, Sam."

Sam's hand roved over to the middle of Cas's back, and rubbed gently. "Well, that's only human, I guess. And as much as you've been hanging out here, it was bound to rub off on you eventually."

"Hmm." Cas replied as he leaned into Sam's hand a bit. Then, as though remembering himself, he pulled away and sat down at the table. "Did you discover anything about the man who took Dean?"

Sam curled his fingers into his palm, missing Cas' warmth. He sighed, then looked over to where Cas was. "Oh. Well, I'm kind of in the same boat as you about that."

Cas frowned. "What do you mean?"

"All I have is a name." he pointed at the computer on the table. "Used it to search for business licenses and what not, but there's nothing. It's like this guy doesn't exist." Sam said, sitting down at the computer and booting it up.

"It is the same with missing women." Cas nodded.

"Still, it's frustrating. I mean, how many 'Fael's can there be?" he frowned at the screen, scanning through the search results. "It's not the most common of names, so it should stick out like a sore thumb, right?"

"Hm. It is a rather rare name. As such, I doubt there would be more than one in any given area. So I find it especially disconcerting that we've run across this name twice in our investigation."

Sam had been reading another fruitless Google search, so he was a bit out of it. "Hmm? What do you mean?"

"I mean, Sam, that the name I discovered in the case of the disappearing girls is also 'Fael'."

Sam stared up at him, computer search forgotten. "We need to talk to those women."

Cas lifted a brow. "I concur."

Sam stood and quickly closed his computer and tucked it into his duffel. "First on the list is Chandra's friend Lena. I got her address from the police reports." He snatched the keys from the nightstand and tossed his duffel over his shoulder. "You ready?" he asked, opening the door.  
"Of course." Cas nodded and followed him out to the car. "Why is this Lena person first on the list, Sam?"

Sam started the car and pulled out onto the road before answering. "Because she was there when Chandra went missing. She gave a description to the cops, but it wasn't helpful. I'm thinking that fact that it wasn't helpful could be a clue. That none of the witnesses to the disappearances could give accurate descriptions is a lead."

"How so?" Cas asked, frowning.

"Well, maybe whoever it is is casting a glamour, or somehow messing with the perceptions of those around him. Or her." Sam replied, checking the signs for the street he needed to turn.

"That is a plausible idea. There are many individuals, however, that could be using this technique. It is not exactly difficult. Any witch or demon could do it, with the right resources."

Turning onto the street, Sam agreed. "I know. Which is why we need to talk to Lena. I think, the more info we pull from her, the closer we'll be to IDing this guy. I said as much to Dean last night, and he agreed with me." He banged his hand on the steering wheel. "Dammit. I wish he was here to help me with this."

Cas looked over at him, curious. "You think you can't do this on your own? Question a witness?"

"What?" Sam did a double take. "No. I just...these things always go more smoothly when it's me and Dean. I'm...well, I'm good with people. I know I can make them comfortable, but sometimes, when we're trying to get out the... I don't know....weird parts of the story, Dean's so much better at that than I am. He's blunt about it, and makes it all seem so...I guess the closest word is normal."

"He makes people willing to confess to things they would normally not admit to," Cas clarified. "The impossible doesn't seem so, when Dean is the one asking about it. I have seen him do this."

"Exactly. I can get them to trust us, but he can get them to talk." Sam said, turning left onto one of the streets he'd written down in his directions.

"Hm." Cas thought for a moment, looking out through the passenger window at the houses passing by. "I have found in my years with the two of you that people will accept what you present to the world as real. Dean knows what comprises his world, and therefore the world around him. The monsters and demons and angels...it is real to him, and therefore should be real to other people. When he speak to them, it is."

"It's not like it's not real to me, too, Cas." Sam whispered.

"But you don't think it needs to be so for others. Other hunters, yes. To the people you call normal, you don't think they should have to deal with the ugliness of your world. You think they're better off not knowing." Cas said, still staring out the window.

Sam cut a glance out the corner of his eye. "I don't know about that."

Cas pinned him with a stare. "I do. Dean's a realist, and believes that everyone should be as well. You're an idealist, Sam."

"Okay. I won't argue that."

Cas actually chuckled a bit, then turned back to staring out the window. "It's what makes the pair of you work so well together. And why you're so hard to destroy."

"And that is why," Sam said, "I'd feel more comfortable if Dean were with me on this. And when I find the guy who took him..." he trailed off, shaking his head.

"You and I both, Sam." Cas said.

Sam looked across the car at Cas, who turned slowly to meet his gaze. Seeing the truth of Cas' words in his eyes, Sam gave a nod. "Okay."

They rode in silence until Sam finally found Lena's house. He pulled to a stop across from a nice little bungalow. He took a deep breath and opened his door. "Ah, Cas. I think it would be best if you leave the talking to me."

"You think I am unfamiliar with the ways of interrogation?" Cas asked as they crossed the street.

"I think that you're calling it an interrogation means you really don't have a clue about how to get information from a source." Sam said, his forehead wrinkled with the effort not to insult an Angel. "It's going to be hard enough, getting her to trust me, but you..." He sighed. "You have a very blunt manner, Cas—worse than Dean's—and I'm not sure that's going to go over well."

"I see. This is a friendly discussion, meant as recon."

Sam smiled ruefully. "Yeah, sorry."

They stepped up onto the porch. "And you think I can't do friendly."

Sam shrugged and gave him an apologetic smile. "Uh, no?"

"Hmm." Just before Sam knocked on the door, Cas stated, "Then perhaps you are right. You should...do the talking."

"Right," Sam replied and knocked on the door.

*****

Dean stood at the window in the room, looking out at the patch of grass outside and into the wooded area beyond. As the day had drawn on, he'd noticed that the light in the trees never changed. It seemed to be almost always the bright, saturated early morning light, coming in at an angle, never arcing through the sky. He glanced up at the sky, thinking to see something strange and unfamiliar, but there was nothing weird about it. The sun had reached its peak earlier in the day, and was now heading toward the horizon Dean could only assume was on the other side of the house.

"At least he gave me an east-facing room," he muttered.

Just then his stomach rumbled. It was strange how he could go without regular meals for a couple of days, but one decent, home-cooked breakfast at the right time could get his body wanting to be back on a schedule. It had been hours since he ate the plate of eggs and toast, and now he eyed the tray longingly.

Fael had left him alone all day. "Probably a good thing," Dean said to himself, considering the mood he'd been in all day. But now his stomach was feeling like his throat had been cut, and he was feeling parched. His throat was dry from the lack of talking he'd been doing all day. "Dammit," he said, and turned back to the window, trying to figure out what it was about the goddamned trees that was bugging the hell out of him—other than the unchanging light.

There's a part of him that wishes he had a computer. And another part of him, a huge gigantic part that he doesn't talk about _ever_ that would really appreciate it if Sam were there with him. Of course, then they'd both be victims of a psycho kidnapper. Still, having Sam there to bounce ideas off of would be nice. Hell, just having him around would make the whole situation bearable.

He moved away from the window to sit at the foot of the bed.

Sam wasn't there, and from all the info he'd gathered, with what Fael said, and how he'd been zapped from the brink of escape back into this gilded cage of a room, Dean doubted that Sam was going to factor in his getting out anyway. Plus, at least with one of them on the outside, there was the possibility of continuing work on the case that brought them to Jackson in the first place.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. Then, turning his eyes heavenward, he groused, "Would it be too much to ask for a regular old salt and burn case? I'm all for having destiny and what not, now that you've all but shoved it down my throat, but could you cut me some freakin' slack here? Not much," he bargained, "just a little? One simple little case, every once in a while; one that doesn't go ass over tea kettle; that's all I'm asking."

"Who are you talking to?" Fael's voice interrupted his impromptu prayer.

Dean jerked around, startled at the intrusion. Glaring at Fael, he said, "You could warn a guy, you know. A knock on the door, clear your throat? Is that too much to ask?"

Fael rolled his eyes. "It's my house."

"And I'm not exactly a guest; I get it." Dean sighed. "What do you want?"

Fael pointed to the chair in the corner of the room. "I thought you might like to shower. I brought you a towel and a change of clothes."

"A shower?" Dean asked. "What? Am I not clean enough for your liking? Is this some ritualistic cleansing before you eat me as a sacrifice." He chuckled mirthlessly. "You know, actually, that wouldn't be real high on my freakmeter, if you must know. Not the first time I've been considered good eatin'."

Fael grimaced and shook his head. "That is appalling. No. I have no intentions of eating you. At least not yet." He grinned. "I'm waiting for you to come around a bit before we get to that."

Dean's eyes went wide at the innuendo of those words. "Is that why you kidnapped me?"

Fael just stared at him, smiling slightly.

"Oh. Well. Ah..." Dean crossed his arms. "What if I don't swing that way?"

Fael chuckled lightly. "You will." He gave Dean a moment to absorb those words. "So. Shower?"

"Seriously? You kidnapped me because you wanted me?" Dean shook his head. "Dude, I gotta tell you, that's a monstrous waste of time. I mean, you can ask my brother, I can be had for the price of a bottle of booze and dinner."

When Fael continued to wait for a response about a shower, Dean rolled his eyes. Considering that he'd been smelling himself for the better part of the day, Dean grudgingly acquiesced. "Fine," he said, "I suppose I could use a shower."

"Good," Fael said, gracing Dean with a full smile. "I'm sure you're hungry again by now. Dinner will be downstairs when you've finished. Feel free to explore. I won't be here, so you'll be free to roam at your leisure. Won't be able to escape, though."

At the mention of dinner, Dean swallowed again, refusing to admit aloud how hungry he was. He also didn't want to appear too eager for the chance to do some recon while alone in the house. He wondered how long he'd have. "Leaving me alone so soon?"

"I know. I hate it, too," Fael replied, sarcasm dripping from his words. "But I have work to do. I'll leave you to it, then," Fael said, and with an enigmatic smile, he left Dean alone. Again.

After his very quick shower, Dean went downstairs. He hoped, with Fael gone, to be able to find something that would help him escape or at least figure out who or what the guy was. No way was he human. There'd been something familiar, almost, about his eyes. Their cold stare, infinite, timeless. He could almost put his finger on it, but then the idea would slip away and he'd be lost again.

He explored the house but didn't find anything particularly out of the ordinary. It seemed like a typical house of a single guy. Casual comfortable furniture, not too many frills or softening touches like there would be if there were a woman around. The only telling sign was the total absence of photos. No pictures of Fael with anyone, no women's pictures, no parents or siblings. Dean thought of the few pictures he and Sam had. Though there weren't many, they did have a couple they kept on hand. To be in a house that didn't have that sort of personal touch, now that he thought about it, was disconcerting.

Dean thought he'd at least find some clues as to what Fael was. The lack of pictures, paired with his thwarting Dean's escape that morning and his otherworldly glare, provided clear evidence, as far as Dean was concerned that this guy was so not human. So he focused his search on finding any clue that would tell him who or what Fael was. By the second hour of searching the house, though, he was no closer to knowing the identity of his captor than he had been when he woke up that morning.

By the end of the evening, Dean was starving, so he wandered into the kitchen, and true to his word, Fael had left him some supper. There was a pot of slow roasted pork simmering in a sweet and tangy smelling barbeque sauce that had Dean's mouth watering so much he had to swallow quickly before he started drooling. On the counter was a bag of ciabatta rolls, a bottle of the barbeque sauce, and some chips. Dean eyed the spread, skeptical but starving.

"It's like I'm like the fatted calf," he muttered to himself.

Grabbing two of the rolls, he made two sandwiches, doused them liberally with the barbeque sauce, and poured out a large helping of chips. He wondered what there was to drink and thought about raiding Fael's liquor cabinet. Figuring he needed to keep his wits about him, he decided liquor wasn't a great idea and opened the refrigerator. He spied some beer in the back, grabbed a bottle, then took it and his meal over to the table..

"Please don't let this food kill me or make me do strange shit I won't remember in the morning," he murmured, then picked up one of the sandwiches and took a careful bite. He chewed slowly, savoring the flavor and waiting to see if Fael had seasoned the food with anything that might prove deadly. When the first bite went down without a hitch, he shrugged and finished his meal.

By the time he'd finished, he'd polished off three sandwiches, half a bag of chips and three of Fael's beers. Full, he set his plate in the sink—no fuckin' way was he doing dishes for his captor; this guy wanted to keep him, then he could bloody well do his own damn dishes—and made a final sweep of the house, covering any rooms or areas he may have missed in his early search.

By midnight, he figured he'd been as thorough as he could be, and still had not found a clue that would help him either escape or figure out Fael's deal. No freaky talismans or esoteric books. No ritual shrines or burning candles. Nothing that would help him. Ending his futile search, he headed back upstairs to the room Fael had him in. He sat on the end of the bed, and laid back, frustration at his predicament making him sigh.

"Son of a bitch." He closed his eyes, and scrubbed his hands over his face. Deciding he might as well get some sleep, since nothing else seemed to be helpful, he pulled off his button down shirt, and kicked off his boots. Then he peeled his jeans off, but left his boxers and a t-shirt on.

He laid down on top of the covers on the bed, and stared out the big plate glass window at the night sky. "Sam," he whispered into the darkness, "I hope you're having better luck on the case than I am here."

He watched a meteor shoot through the midnight sky, then closed his eyes and, weary and exhausted, fell asleep.

*****

Sam drove back to the hotel replaying the discussion with Lena over and over in his head. It started out simply enough, getting the details of the night Chandra disappeared, filling in a few blanks that were in the police report. Despite the new information, he was still no closer to figuring out who, or what, had taken the women, or where Dean was. One thing he did begin to consider was that whoever took the women was the same guy who took Dean, and when he found Dean, he'd be that much closer to finding the women—or vice versa.

The odd thing about their conversation was the way Cas had been so quiet through the whole thing, listening, picking up details and turning them over in his mind, looking for clues in what Lena had been saying. Occasionally, Sam would glance over, and the look he'd learned was Cas' 'concentration face' had been present. Sam had questioned him about it once.

"What?" he asked.

Cas frowned at him, questioning.

"You have that look you get. Do you have any idea what she's talking about?" he asked, giving a nod to Lena.

"I hope so," she said, eyes wide. "If you could find Chandra, you have no idea how grateful her family and I would be." She sighed. "The cops keep saying they're looking for her, but without a definite description or any leads, it's going to be hard to find her. Next to impossible, they said, after forty-eight hours." She took a sip of the coffee she had sitting in front of her, grimacing when she noticed it had gone cold.

Sam looked down at his own forgotten cup, and, pushing it away, said, "I know. We're doing our best. That's why we're talking to you. We thought you might be able to give us a bit more information that what was in the police files. So anything you remember, even the stuff that seems impossible, would be helpful." He turned back to Cas. "So? Any ideas?"

Cas gave him an unreadable look. "It needs further investigation. Based on what this woman has told us, I have a place to start."

"You want to maybe share with the class?"

"What class?" Cas asked, momentarily thrown.

Sam chuckled, looking over at Lena, who was smiling down into her coffee cup. Turning back to Cas, Sam said, "I meant, would you tell us," he pointed at himself and Lena, "what you're thinking."

"You could have simply said as much, Sam," Cas said, irritated.

Sam outright laughed. "Yes, yes. Are your people skills still rusty, Cas?" Then, off of Cas's glare, "I'm kidding. What are you thinking?"

Cas looked over at Lena, and Sam followed his gaze. She looked between the two of them with a renewed hope. Sam thought about what they were talking about and decided he didn't want to scare her. Looking back at Cas, he said, "Why don't we take this in the kitchen?"

Cas nodded and followed Sam out of the room. Once in the kitchen, Sam peeked through the kitchen door to make sure Lena was still at the table, then he turned to Cas. "What did you find out?"

Cas started talking. "Based on what she has revealed and on what I discovered earlier, I have a feeling that the power we're dealing with is not a demonic or human power."

Sam was stunned. "You mean it's...?"

Nodding, Cas said, "Only my brothers have to power to alter a person's perceptions so subtly. Demons and witches lack the aptitude and access to a person subconscious while they are awake." He started to walk out of the kitchen. "I need to go and find out who among my brothers has gone missing."

Sam frowned, confused. "Why would the angels be interested in kidnapping women?"

"That is what I aim to uncover," Cas replied, crossing the living room to the front door.

"All right, then. When can I expect you back?" Sam asked him.

Opening the door, Cas turned back to him with an irritated glare. "When I have information."

Sam stayed with Lena a while longer, answering her questions as well as he could, considering how much she didn't—and couldn't—know. When she was finally satisfied that he and Cas would do all they could to find her friend, there wasn't much left to discuss, he decided it was time to leave. He thanked her for the coffee and promised to work hard to find her friend. "Either way, Lena, you're going to know what happened to your friend," he assured her, then left.

Feeling a little more optimistic, he thought he might gather some more intel from the bar they'd been at the night before. He hoped he'd be able to see the guy who had taken Dean out the back door. The bartender he'd spoken to the night before told him that Fael, the one he'd relieved, worked most evenings. He pulled into the parking lot and checked his wallet for cash. No need to give the man any more information than was necessary, he thought. He stepped out of the car and shoved his wallet into his inside coat pocket as he crossed the lot.

Opening the doors, he was surprised by the relative quiet of the bar. He checked his watch, thinking perhaps it wasn't as late as he thought, but it was just after eight, and the bar was pretty empty. There was a bald guy—dark skinned and good looking enough that Sam took notice—wiping down one end of the bar. He looked up as Sam sat down and caught his eye. "Hey. What'll ya have?" he asked.

"Ah, I'll take whatever you've got on tap and some information." Sam said, pulling his wallet out of his jacket.

The bartender cocked an eyebrow. "The draft'll be three seventy-five," he said, flipping a glass over and holding it under the tap to be filled, "and the info goes for a premium."

Sam chuckled. "Like insurance?"

Laughing as he set the full glass down, the bartender agreed. "Exactly. The more detailed, the more expensive."

Sighing, Sam nodded. "I'll take what...fifty bucks will get me," he said and handed the guy fifty-five bucks. "And you can count the change as a tip for the beer."

The guy's eyebrows shot up. "Must need some pretty specific details," he said.

"My brother and I were here last night with a friend. Our friend left early, and when I left to use the restroom, my brother was dragged out the back door by one of your bartenders. His name is Fael. I didn't get a good look at him, and I was wondering if you knew where I could find him."

The bartender nodded. "Hm. Well, I can tell you this much," he said, crossing his arms. "Fael owns the place."

"I know, the guy I talked to last night told me."

"So...he comes and goes as he pleases. Keeps to himself, mostly, and pays his employees enough not to ask questions about where he lives and what he does." He uncrossed his arms, and grabbed the towel he'd set aside and began wiping at the bar again. "So I couldn't help you if I wanted to."

Sam sighed. "Which is another way of saying you don't want to help me."

The bartender shot him a look from beneath his lashes, and his amber eyes glinted in the low light of the bar. "It's my way of saying I _can't_ help you." A pause, then, "I'm sorry."

Sam grabbed a napkin and, in a repeat of the previous evening, jotted down his cell number. "Damn. Okay. I really need to find my brother, so if you see this Fael guy, could you at least give me a call?" He pushed the napkin across the bar.

Taking the napkin and giving it a quick glance the bartender shrugged and said, "Sure. If he shows up tonight, I'll give you a call," as he tucked the napkin into his pocket. He nodded at Sam's beer. "Can I get you anything else?"

Sighing, Sam picked up the mug and said, "No. Think I'll just finish this and head on out."

"You want your fifty dollars back?"

Pausing to ponder the question, Sam finally shook his head. "Keep it. Think of it as incentive to call me if Fael shows up."

In the little bit of time it took Sam to finish his beer, the bar started filling up with patrons, and the music started kicking up. By the time he left, he could feel the beginnings of a headache forming, so he stood out in the fresh air by the car and took several deep breaths. Frustration at the fruitlessness of his efforts for the day, he banged a fist on the roof of the Impala, and almost immediately felt contrite. He apologized, "I'm sorry, Baby," and laughed at himself for talking to the car. "You really are taking after him more and more," he said to himself as he opened the door and slid in behind the wheel. In that moment, he missed Dean like he would one of his limbs. The ache in his chest that had been a dull weight for the last twenty-four hours flared to a white hot stabbing pain, and he leaned his head against the steering wheel. "Dammit, Dean. Where are you, man?"

He felt a prickle at the back of his neck, like he was being watched. He lifted his head again and scanned the parking lot, but saw nothing. So he turned back to the bar. The bar tender he'd spoken with was leaning against the wall, eyes closed, foot propped on the wall behind him, taking a drag off of a cigarette. When he opened his eyes, Sam swallowed hard. Those amber eyes were almost glowing in the neon light from the 'Budweiser' sign behind him, and they were focused, like a laser on Sam.

Spooked, Sam started the car and threw it into gear. He backed out of his spot slowly, careful not to let on that the guy had unnerved him, then with a heavy crunch of gravel, he left the bar and drove back to the hotel.

Once back at the hotel, he tossed the keys onto the dresser, and collapsed back onto the bed and replayed the scene at the bar. It was odd that the bar owner would keep his private life so secret from his employees, and that he paid them enough to encourage their silence. Then there'd been that moment outside.

He mulled that over for a while, until he couldn't even recall what the bar tender looked like.

He sat up abruptly. It only happened fifteen minutes ago, and Sam had a stellar memory for faces. That he couldn't remember anything about what the bartender looked like seemed, at best hinky, at worst ominous. He got up and grabbed the note pad out of the drawer of the nightstand. He started listing details about his time at the bar. What time it was. What he drank. What the bartender said to him. His replies. How the beer tasted. How he felt. Everything he could think of. Then he tried to describe the bartender. The towel he used to wipe the bar. His hands as he poured Sam's drink. His clothes. Jeans? Pants? A t-shirt or a polo? His hair. Wait. He didn't have hair. Or did he? His eyes. Brown. No, hazel. Wait, maybe green? Dark skinned? That didn't seem right. His voice. Did he even speak?

He paused for a minute, trying to remember. Then looked back down at the list, confused. "What is this?" He read over the list. He couldn't remember doing any of the things on it. "I was at a bar?" he asked out loud. There was the unmistakable aftertaste of beer in his mouth, so he must have been at a bar, but he didn't remember it. He thought about balling up the paper, even had it ripped off the pad and curled into his fist, but then he remembered that Cas was with him. Not at the moment, but would be in the morning, so he set the list on the table and went back to the bed.

Staring at the piece of paper on the table, and exercising a supreme amount of willpower not to just rip it to tiny pieces and throw it away, Sam pulled off his coat, boots and jeans, leaving on his t-shirt and boxers and climbed into the bed. He'd show the list to Cas in the morning; maybe he'll have some clue to decipher what the hell had happened.

*****

Dean woke slowly, the morning sun shining through the open curtains bringing him to slow awareness. He was warm and comfortable, almost soothed. He gave a small "hmm," as he woke, rolling over away from the window. There was a warmth next to his hip, solid and strong. He smiled, still drowsy, and said, "Sam," then snuggled a bit into that warmth.

He felt fingers through his hair, and stretched up into the caress, unable to stop himself. Those fingers brushed over the shell of his ear, the line of his jaw, then traced the shape of his lips. He frowned. That's not something Sam would do. He opened his eyes, blinking against the brightness of the morning sun in the room.

It wasn't Sam smiling down at him. "Good morning," Fael said.

Dean jerked away from Fael's heat and sat up, glaring at his captor.

Fael sighed. "You were sleeping so peacefully; I couldn't help myself."

"You know, that's what rapists say to their victims, 'I couldn't help myself.' You touch me again, and you'll need a lot of help." Dean said, deadly calm.

A stillness settled over Fael and the room, almost as though he pulled the energy from air, and he focused on Dean. It must have been the way the sun hit his face, but Dean thought he saw Fael's eyes glowing. "Why are you so stubborn, Dean? I don't want to hurt you. You liked me well enough at the bar."

"At the bar, I didn't know you were going to take me prisoner. I guess I just don't like being kidnapped." Dean felt compelled to reply.

Fael smiled then, calculating and confident. "You'd have come with me willingly?"

"Have you seen you? Probably."

Dean swallowed, eyes wide. He didn't want to say that! "What are you doing, Fael?"

"Nothing," Fael said, smiling wider. "What stopped you?"

"I didn't want to leave my brother. Or Cas."

Fael's smile faded. "Cas?"

"Castiel."

"You have an angel as, what...your sidekick?"

Dean wanted to ask how Fael knew what Cas was, but couldn't. Instead, he felt the fond smile he reserved for thoughts of Cas dance across his face. "He rescued me a few years ago. Been with me ever since."

He was screaming inside, knowing that he didn't want to say these things, but compelled by something Fael was doing.

"You mean with you and your brother."

"No," Dean said, struggling to stop talking. "With me. We have a...thing. He called it a bond. I don't know. He thinks Sam's an abomination." Dean frowned. No one should know that! Why couldn't he stop talking?

"What would you have done if you had come here willingly?" Fael asked, and part of Dean was relieved to be off the topic of Cas and Sam.

"Anything you wanted," Dean said, appalled at himself. He tried lifting a hand to cover his mouth, maybe muffle the responses Fael was somehow dragging out of him, but his arms wouldn't move.

"And if I wanted you?"

Dean shook with the effort to not respond, but his mouth opened and the words tumbled out. "You could have had me."

"What about now?"

At last an honest response Dean could give willingly. "You could do anything you wanted right now, but I'd prefer you didn't."

Fael reached out again, and touched Dean's face. "You want your autonomy, don't you?"

Dean nodded, stiff with unexpressed anger.

"You see how easy this is for me, controlling you, taking what I want from you?"

Another nod, accompanied by a curl of Dean's lip.

Fael leaned in, close enough that Dean could smell the hint of whiskey and beer still on his clothes and the cologne against his skin. Fael's lips brushed over Dean's cheek, not a kiss, just a whisper of a touch, before he whispered in Dean's ear. "I could have you now, Dean," he said, his breath hot against Dean's ears, "But I want you willing."

Fael pulled back slowly, catching Dean's eye, then whatever he'd done, whatever spell or power he'd cast, fell away. Dean reared back, sharp as a lightning strike, punched Fael in the jaw.

Fael's head snapped around with the force of the blow, but he chuckled. "I'll give you that one, boy," he said, turning back to Dean and moving his jaw as though stretching out the pain. "But no more."

"Fuck you, you sadistic piece of shit," Dean muttered, flexing his fingers to work out the pain in his knuckles.

Smacking his thighs, and standing, Fael said, "In due time, Dean." Going to the bedroom door, he pointed at a tray on the dresser. "I brought you breakfast. Don't throw this one, please?" Then he left, leaving the door open behind him.

Dean eyed the tray and briefly thought about tossing it out into the hall, but he knew he'd be hungry in a bit, and with the very persuasive demonstration of Fael's power just now, he didn't want to risk pissing the guy off. He rubbed his hand over his face, stilling it over his mouth.

How did he always end up like this? Stuck in some godforsaken place with people and things he didn't understand and couldn't fight. He supposed it could be worse; Fael could just tie him up—probably to the bed and naked, based on what just happened—but he'd left Dean free to wander.

He climbed out of the bed and pulled on his clothes, leaving his feet bare. When he was dressed, he checked what was on the tray. Some more eggs, toast, and an apple. Some juice. Still no coffee. "Great. Looking forward to that headache when it comes," he muttered, picking up the tray and heading back to the bed so he could eat.

After his breakfast and a very long shower, Dean headed back downstairs again. He'd searched the house thoroughly the day before and found nothing that would tell him what sort of creature he was dealing with. He'd noticed in his search, though, that the guy who held him was a blues man, from the state of his music collection and the art on his walls. Bored as he was, not to mention unnerved, he thought maybe listening to some good music would help him focus on escaping.

The house was silent as he wandered downstairs. Dean figured Fael was out, doing whatever it is he did, and he breathed a small sigh of relief at the measure of privacy. He went into the living room where he'd seen the collection the day before. This time he paid closer attention to what he was looking at. On the walls and shelves, there were old sepia photos ranging from what Dean could tell the early days of the Delta blues all the way up to more modern guys that even Dean listened to. From Muddy Waters, John Lee Hooker, and Buddy Guy to B.B. King, Eric Clapton, and Stevie Ray Vaughn. He let his fingers drift reverently over a signed photo of John Lee Hooker. He tamped down a flare of jealousy before moving over to the music collection.

He flipped through the records, every now and again pulling one out and scanning the track listing. He had a few records picked out and was putting one on the player when Fael spoke.

"Impressed?" Fael asked, leaning in the opening of the room.

Dean shrugged. "Decent collection," he stated.

Fael laughed. "I like it. Been around a while and heard all kinds of music, but this.... It's visceral." He shook his head. "Nothing like it. Not anywhere, not anytime."

"I'm a classic rock guy myself," Dean said.

"Your music is built on this, Dean."

"Yeah? Everything's built on something else, these days. I don't need a lesson in the history of rock and roll, man."

Fael held up a hand, warding off Dean's irritation. "Not offering. Just making an observation."

Sniffing, Dean nodded. "You know, I almost expected to have to replace some hairs on doorknobs, coming down here."

Fael clapped once as he laughed aloud. "If I promise not to cut off your feet, will you loosen up a bit?"

"I doubt it, considering the nature of my...visit." Dean murmured, immediately on edge again.

Fael sighed, laughter dying down to an exasperated smile. "That's too bad," he replied, moving farther into the living room. "I was coming in to put on some music. I see you beat me to it."

He crossed the room to stand next to Dean at the stereo, then laid the needle on the vinyl. There was a soft crackle through the speakers, then Etta James' _Born Under a Bad Sign_ came thumping out. Tilting his head, he listened to the music, eyes closed, for a moment. Then he said, "I suppose, from your point of view, you're a captive here, but that dynamic isn't really what I want between us."

"Well, buddy, it's all you're gonna get. Especially after that performance this morning."

Fael turned up the volume, then turned to face Dean, waving his arm in an encompassing gesture. "Do what you want, here, Dean. There's nowhere for you to go, nowhere to run, no one to run to. Not even your precious Sam or Castiel. You can fight it all you want. I'll just be here, waiting until you come around." He turned to leave. "And you will come around."

Dean followed him out. "And what makes you think that?"

"Because you want to," Fael replied, calmly. "You want to, and you're curious about me." They made a turn into a bright, spacious kitchen.

"True," Dean said, nodding. "I'm right fucking curious about the man who hit on me—and don't think I don't know that's what you were doing at the bar—drugged me and snatched me. You're goddamned right I want to know who or _what_ you are."

Fael pulled a couple of glasses out of the cabinet and turned back to Dean; his dark eyes glimmered with satisfaction in his smooth ebony face. "That's more like it, Dean," he said, smiling. "Since you're coming around to some understanding, I think it only fair to tell you this. Any _supernatural_ means you and your friends have devised to locate you in emergencies will not work here." He let that sink in for a bit, then turned back to the counter and the bottle he had waiting. "Drink?" he asked, then, not waiting for an answer, poured two fingers of bourbon in each glass.

"You know what I am, what I do," Dean said, somewhat more cautiously, taking the proffered glass.

"I do. It's one of the reasons I took you," Fael said. "Cheers."

"Hm," Dean downed the bourbon with a grimaced and hissed at the burn of it. "Question, then."

"Shoot."

"If you know what I am, do you know why I'm here?" Dean asked, eyebrows high.

"Here, as in my house? Or do you mean why you're in Jackson?"

"Does it matter?"

"Touche." Fael poured himself another shot, and swallowed it down. "I presume you and your brother are here hunting whatever has taken those five young women." He looked down into the empty glass. Dean watched him for a moment.

"You know something about that," he said quietly.

The record in the living room switched, _Strange Fruit_ by Billie Holiday started playing, and Dean huffed a laugh.

"You think this song is funny?" Fael asked, curious.

"Nope. Not funny. Just...fitting, I guess."

"Hm." Fael rinsed his glass and put it into the dishwasher. Then he nodded at Dean. "You're welcome to more, if you want," he said, indicating the bottle still open on the counter. "I'm going to start dinner. You can help or not, as you see fit." He opened the refrigerator and pulled out some vegetables and a package of brown paper wrapped meat.

Dean poured himself one more shot, then closed the bottle and put it away. Seeing the knives tucked into their block, Dean smiled grimly. "I'll chop," he said, grabbing the onions and peppers from his...he'd have to call him 'host' now. "I take it the conversation about the missing girls is over?"

Fael unwrapped the steaks and put them on a platter before adding salt and pepper. "I can tell you that they aren't dead. Other than that, I think we need to get to know each other a bit more before we start sharing state secrets, yes? Just quarter the onions, no slices."

Dean eyed the blade in his hand, skimmed his thumb along the edge, testing its sharpness. Glancing out of the corner of his eye, he was surprised at the smile playing about Fael's mouth. "Don't even think about it," Fael whispered, shaking his head.

Dean nodded and peeled the skin off of an onion before cutting it in half. "If you did something to those girls, Fell..."

Fael smiled, a sad twist of lips. "I know. You'll have to kill me."

"To be fair, it's my job."

"Is it?"

Dean frowned. "You just said it's one of the reasons you took me."

"True," Fael said, licking a bit of salty steak juice off his fingers. "I just wonder if this 'job,' as you call it, is what you really saw yourself doing when you were younger."

Dean's knife paused in the middle of an onion half. "It's all I've ever known."

"That's not what I wondered."

Sighing, Dean resumed cutting, movements sharp and precise through the vegetable. "Did I always want this?" he shrugged. "I don't recall ever not knowing this is what I'd be doing. If you're asking me if I wanted a normal life..." The knife scraped hard across the cutting board. "Well, that's not in the cards for me, so I try not to let things I can't do anything about bother me." He paused in his cutting, and laughed at himself. "Why am I telling you this?"

"I can honestly say I'm not making you, this time," Fael said, hands up in a warding gesture.

"No. I know. It's different." He shook his head, confused. After a moment he resumed cutting the onions.

"Does that work? Not 'letting it bother you'?"

The knife slipped. "Shit!" Dean put his knuckle into his mouth, sucking at the stinging wound. He walked over to the sink and ran the cold tap, feeling Fael's deep gaze on him the whole time. He put his finger into the stream of water, and looked up at his captor. "No," he said, spitting out the word. "It doesn't always work. But there's nothing I can do about it. This is the job. It's sacrifice and hurt and not knowing where or when Death is going to take me."

Fael's eyebrow quirked at that. "You know, most people don't put the capital D on his name," He observed.

"Yeah? Well, I'd wager that most people haven't met him, or taken his place for a night either. My job is...cake...compared to his." He pulled his finger out of the water and looked it over. "You got any bandaids? I'd normally just let it go, but you've got me chopping, and I don't want pepper juice getting in this."

Fael laughed and pointed at the cabinet next to the sink.

"You're laughing at me," Dean complained as he rifled through the cabinet for a bandage.

"Not because you're injured, but because you'll do anything to avoid conversation," Fael clarified.

"Yeah. I'm a master evader," Dean said with an eye roll and wrapped a bandage around the cut before returning to the cutting board. "So, yeah. I...had the normal life, or whatever the hell you call it. Nothing about it was normal. Still waking up at three in the morning making sure salt lines are laid, and the Devil's trap under the front door rug is unbroken. Still chasing shadows in the garden and shooting at opossums thinking they're imps. Normal, Fell, is overrated, and really, probably doesn't exist."

"I won't argue with you," Fael said, then paused. "Well, except for one thing."

"Not gonna change my mind," Dean said, slicing the top off of a red bell pepper.

"Don't want to change your mind, but you, my hunter friend, keep butchering my name."

"Never was very good with names," Dean said, dismissing the complaint.

Footsteps on the tile floor alerted him to Fael's progress across the floor. Then a warm breath fluttered against his neck. "Listen, Dean," Fael whispered. Then he whispered his name into Dean's ear, drawing it out, lengthening the 'a' just enough to make it noticeable. Dean shivered and turned his head slightly to the side and repeated what he'd heard.

"Fail."

"No, again," and the name was whispered again, shorter, harder, and Dean finally heard it.

"Fael."

"That's my boy," came the whispered compliment and warm lips settled for an instant on Dean's neck. "Knew you'd get it."

Dean closed his eyes and swallowed. "What do you want from me?"

"Right now," Fael said, breath still hot on Dean's neck, "I want you to finish cutting that pepper and bring it and the onions out to the deck." He backed away from Dean and grabbed the plate of steaks from the counter before heading to the wide French doors that were open onto the deck. "We're grilling, in case you couldn't tell."

"Son of a bitch," Dean muttered and made quick work of the prep before heading out after Fael.

*****

Sam woke to the feeling of being watched. Opening his eyes, he saw nothing in front of him, but felt a presence behind him. He jerked around. "Jesus! Cas. Damn. Didn't Dean tell you about watching people while they sleep?" he complained, wiping the sleep from his eyes.

Frowning, Cas said, "He said he didn't like it when I watched him sleep. He mentioned nothing about other people also disliking it."

Tossing the covers aside, Sam stood up and was seized by an involuntary need to stretch.

"Do you do that every time you wake? It sounds painful."

Sam scratched at his stomach and said, "Feels good though. And yeah. Every morning." He looked over at Cas, who was staring at his waist. Sam pulled his shirt back down, and Cas looked up to meet his gaze again, swallowing lightly. "So. What'd ya find?" Sam asked, as he pulled on a pair of jeans from his duffle, not bothering to button them.

Before Cas could answer, though, Sam remembered the sheet of paper on the night stand. "Wait. I think I have something, too. Meaning that I have nothing, but only because the something I had was wiped from my memory." He retrieved the paper he'd written on the night before and sat back down.

Cas followed his movements, a confused frown marring his brow. "You are not making sense, Sam."

"I know, believe me. It makes no sense to me either," he replied, handing the paper to Cas, who took it cautiously. "But I wrote it all down before it went away."

"You visited a bar," Cas said, reading the list. "Ah. You went back to the bar where Dean was taken. Good idea."

"Apparently, I did. But I don't remember any of it, now. I did when I got here; that's how I knew to write it all down. And I can't be sure I got everything out before it was gone." Sam held little hope that Cas would know what to make of his list, but he had to ask. "What do you make of it?"

"You say your memory erased as you wrote this list?" Cas asked.

"Yes. I don't remember anything after leaving Lena's house last night, until I got here. There's almost a whole hour gone." Sam said, leaning back in his chair. "That list tells me I talked to another bar tender and gave him my number. But it doesn't say why, or what he looked like, or what he said."

"This actually fits with what I found discovered. Given the oddity of the name and the nature of power being used on the witnesses and you, yes, Sam, it's safe to assume the creature who is kidnapping women is the same one who took Dean two nights ago. Your 'Fael,' the man who took your brother, is the same 'Fael' I discovered who kidnapped the women we're looking for."

Sam stared at Cas. "You're telling me that the guy who took Dean is the same guy who snatched those women?" The implication hit him, and he stammered, "My brother's kidnapper is...is...he's an angel?"

"Yes. Israfael. He used to be the angel of music. It is said he stopped the moon in the sky when he sang in Heaven." Cas shrugged. "I have never heard him sing. He left Heaven not long after I was created."

"Do you know why? And what is with kidnapping women whose names are derivatives of lunar goddesses?"

"I cannot answer your first question; however, your second question is interesting and bears entertaining. Do you remember the Elysian Fields Hotel? The gathering of the gods?"

Flinching from the memory of watching Gabriel murdered by Lucifer, Sam murmured, "Of course."

"The gods of other mythologies are real. You know this."

Sam chuckled humorlessly. "You could say that. Dean and I have been tied up by more than our fair share of them."

"Yes, well. In this case, Anumati is a jealous goddess. When Israfael left, and no longer sang in Heaven, she grew...furious. She hunted Israfael down and promised to kill him if he didn't either return to Heaven and sing for her or provide her with a sacrifice. Five women every two hundred and fifty earth years. He refused to return to Heaven, preferring to walk among men and learn of their music and their passions."

"So rather than return and, I don't know, _do the job he was created for_ , Israfael chose instead to sacrifice the people he was so interested in."

"Yes. In return for his sacrifice, Anumati promised to never reveal his location on earth." Cas said.

"Terrific. I take it no one in Heaven or Hell's got wind of this guy's location?"

"Anumati has been quite stringent in keeping her promise," Cas said by way of reply.

"Still, she didn't count on Israfael taking a liking to Dean. And that is the mistake which will lead us to him," Sam said, pleased at the break in the case. He smiled at Cas. "I've been so focused on finding Dean and just sort of left you holding the bag on locating the missing women, Cas." He sighed. "I'd apologize for that, but you pretty much solved the case."

Cas shrugged. "I am confident you would have been successful with or without me," he said.

Sam stood and laid his hand on Cas' shoulder. "Still, you're pretty useful to have around, you know."

Cas cocked one eyebrow. "I'm an angel. Of course I'm useful."

A wicked voice is Sam's head whispered that Cas was not just useful, but pretty easy on the eyes, too. He opened his mouth to say as much, but thought better of it, thinking that Cas might take it for teasing and not for the truth, as Sam meant it. Instead, he patted Cas on the back, and went to get a shirt from his duffle.

"Then I guess it's back to the bar," Sam said decisively, pulling the shirt up over his shoulders and buttoning it.

"Why the bar?" Cas asked, watching him as he buttoned his jeans.

Once fully dressed, Sam took a deep breath and said, "Because this _angel_ has my brother. He's holding women hostage to sacrifice them to some jealous moon goddess, and he used his power on me. He _works_ at this bar. When he goes in tonight, we'll be waiting. He will tell me where Dean is." He turned on Cas, menace clear in his eyes. "Then Dean and I are gonna get the location of those women from him. No matter what, shortly after we get this guy, those women will be home with their families and friends."

"Okay."

Nodding, Sam grabbed the Impala's keys from the dresser, tossed his duffle over his shoulder, and headed out to the car, Castiel following right behind him.

They drove in silence, the only sound the dull drone of tires on asphalt, and the occasional click of the turn signal as Sam navigated through town to the bar. Finding the place deserted in the mid afternoon, he parked the car in a lot across the street, making sure to choose a spot that had the best vantage point of the bar. Sinking low in the seat, he settled in for a stakeout.

"You do know, Sam, that Israfael will be able to detect my presence, if he hasn't already," Cas finally said after several minutes of stillness.

The thought that Cas might be compromised worried Sam, but it could also be useful. "I hadn't considered that," he said, frowning, "but now that you mention it, that might not be such a bad thing."

"It is my understanding that a 'stake out' must be rather surreptitious. You using me as bait seems to defeat the purpose."

"If he can sense you, because you guys are brothers, then he'll be focused on you." Sam said, eyes on the bar.

Cas frowned at him, confused. "Why would you consider that to be a good thing?"

Sam glanced at him. "If he's worried about you being around, he won't see me coming."

"He knows you, though, Sam. Has already manipulated your mind. How can you expect to get to him undetected?"

Sam chuckled. "It's sweet that you're worried," he said, then smiled over at Cas. "But for an angel, you sure are forgetful."

"The Enochian symbols on your ribs," Cas stated. "Are you sure you still have them?"

"Why wouldn't I?" Sam said, turning back to watch the front of the bar.

"Because you spent years in Hell battling between two very powerful archangels in Lucifer's cage," Cas said, matter of fact. "At the very least, your body was destroyed. Why would the person who brought you back recast the sigils?"

Turning back to him, Sam shook his head, not ready to give up so easily on catching Fael. "So put them back," he said easily.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," Cas said, frowning.

"What? Why not?"

Cas glared at him. "Dean still has his sigils, and I can't locate him."

"But you don't know if that's because Fael has him under some kind of protection spell, or if it's the sigils."

"If I put the symbols back on your ribs, I will no longer be able to find you when things go wrong."

Sam turned to him. "Cas. We're going up against an angel that's older than you to force him to reveal where he's taken my brother. To do that, one of us needs to get the drop on him. You can't, because you're both angels. I'm the only answer here. I want all the protection I can get, if you don't mind."

Cas leveled a heady stare at Sam, who met his eyes without flinching. "Do it, Cas."

"As you wish." He slid across the seat, and lifted his hand. "It will be painful," Castiel said softly.

"I remember," Sam whispered, closing his eyes as Cas laid a palm over his chest.

Heat flared within him as though it were a literal fire that scorched the forgotten language onto his ribs. He could almost feel every dip and swirl, every line and curve of the sigils burning into his bones. Before he could gather the breath to scream out his pain, the deed was done, and Cas was pulling away.

Sam grabbed his hand, holding it to his chest. "Ouch," he said, breathless with pain.

"I'm sorry," Cas whispered, his soft breath brushing against Sam's cheek. Then his cool forehead rested against Sam's temple.

Sam entwined his fingers with Cas'. "Castiel," he whispered, his voice softer than breath. Hhe turned his head slowly, making sure to give Cas time to avoid it, but Cas didn't move. He didn't close his eyes or lower his head or do any of the things Sam was certain he would do. Instead, the pink tip of his tongue rolled along the seam of his lips, and left a shiny moist trail in its wake.

Sam knew Cas wanted Dean, and any other time, he'd have left well enough alone. But Dean was _his_ first, and Dean was missing, and Sam _needed_. So he tilted his head and without regard to the consequences of his actions, he took Castiel's lips under his, wanting to appease the ache that both of them shared.

Cas remained still, unmoving in the kiss, then Sam tilted his head, and snaked his tongue over the seam of Cas' mouth, and those tight lips opened enough for him to slip inside. Then Cas got involved in the kiss as well, his hand sliding over Sam's chest to curve around the back of his neck and into the sweat damp curls at the base of his skull. His lips parted further, and Sam surged into the kiss. He pulled Cas over into his lap, hands tight around his waist while he plundered Cas' mouth.

"Sam," Cas murmured, mouth sliding over Sam's lips to his jaw, and further down over his neck. Sam leaned his head back, longing for something sharper than kisses, and Cas obliged, nipping at the delicate skin under Sam's jaw.

"Cas," he breathed.

Then Cas' mouth was back on his, ravenous. Sam opened to it, breathing heavily through his nose. He wasn't usually one to be taken, being the more aggressive partner had always served him well in sexual situations, but Cas, seemed to be using everything in his power to tame Sam. The control and determination with which he explored Sam's mouth, his body, his skin, left Sam feeling vulnerable. It wasn't comfortable, not at all, but Cas made it okay. He kept Sam anchored in the now, didn't let him flounder backwards and down into the pit. Cas was all light and energy and focus, and Sam basked in the warmth that radiated like the brightest embers after a conflagration—no threat, just comfort.

Sam had been so long in the cold, it seemed. Whole chunks of times and experience gone from him, tucked away behind a wall he couldn't surmount. But flashes of memories burned the back of his brain, carving chips in the wall he knew he shouldn't mess with, and it scared him a little. Then he remembered, _This is Cas_. Sam trusted him like no one else, save Dean, so he held on. He held on and he kissed Castiel like it was the only time he'd ever get to because it could destroy him, and it was wonderful.

Cool hands snaked under his t-shirt, riding the crest of his ribs and chest, lifting the material up as they went, until Sam had to break away and pull the offending cloth up and off. "Off, off," he muttered, and flung the shirt into the back seat. He pushed at Cas' coat, jerking it down around his elbows, and Cas pulled his hands away and shoved the damned thing _off_ , the he ripped open his shirt, tie still tight at his neck.

Sam pushed him away to tug off the dark blue silk, then he slowly opened the collar of Cas' shirt, exposing the pale skin of his throat. Skin he'd never seen; skin that had never seen the light of day. He wondered what it tasted like. Leaning forward, he placed an opened mouthed kiss at the hollow of Cas' throat, letting his tongue sample that skin.

"Salty," he said.  
Cas sighed over him, and shrugged off his jacket and shirt to toss them in the back seat with Sam's t-shirt.

They were both naked to the waist. Sam let his hands explore the surface of Cas' body, his fingers fitting neatly into the intercostals spaces of the angel's ribs, before sliding to his back, searching.

"You can't feel them," Cas said.

Sam looked up at him, confused. "Why?"

"They belong to me," Cas said, leaning down and planting a kiss on Sam's shoulder. "Not my vessel."

"Oh," Sam whispered, disappointed. He'd often wondered what Cas' wings felt like. Would they be soft and downy, or stiff like an eagle's wing. A sudden thought crept into his brain. "Has Dean ever felt them?"

Cas paused and rolled his head on Sam's shoulder to look up at him. Frowning, he said, "Yes. But he doesn't remember."

Sam let his fingers roam over Cas' back, as though petting the appendages. "When you pulled him out of Hell."

Cas nodded. "He needed their protection."

Sam nodded once. "Okay."

Cas sat up and looked Sam right in the eye. "I swear, Sam, if you ever need the protection of my wings, you will have it."

Sam smiled softly, eyes focused on Cas' pink, abraded mouth. "Good," he said. And leaned forward, taking Cas' mouth in another searing kiss.

*****

Dean was feeling loose and warm all over, seduced by the food, the alcohol, and the goddamned music. About halfway through dinner, Fael had gone in and traded out the old scratchy records—which Dean had to admit he loved the sound of—for some CDs on the changer. Eric Clapton, Ray Charles, and B.B. King wafted out into the night air.

"You're a sneaky SOB, you know that, right?" Dean asked his host several hours after sundown. The steaks were gone, and between the two of them, Dean and Fael managed to put away a six pack of beer as well as make a serious dent in a bottle of Jack.

"I resent that. There's nothing sneaky at all about what I've been doing," Fael said, rolling his head along the back of his chair to pin Dean with a benevolent stare. "I told you from the start that I wanted you." He chuckled as he lifted the last bottle of beer to his lips. "And I'm not the only one, if what I saw in the bar the other night is any indication."

"Sam and I-" Dean started.

"Not talking about Sam," Fael said, shaking his head. He leaned forward and put the bottle on the table with finality. "I'm talking about Castiel."

Dean blinked. The heady satiation of good food, booze and music made him a little slow. But he put some order to his thoughts, and came to a conclusion he totally wasn't prepared to come to. "Holy fuck. You're an angel." He frowned. "Should've known. Only one thing hurts that way."

Fael just stared at him.

"You're a goddamn _angel_ ," he said again, shaking his head.

Sighing, Fael nodded. "You could say that, I guess."

"I cannot believe this." Dean frowned, sitting forward in his chair. "How the hell did you get a bead on me, anyway. I'm supposed to be undetectable to you!"

Smiling, Fael said, "You walked into my bar, Dean. No _detection_ required." He shrugged. "Besides, I'm old, Dean. A lot older than the forgotten language your sigils are written in. Cas was only newly created when I left Heaven."

"You left? As in, just...walked away from the Host of Heaven?"

Fael nodded. "What? Did you think we couldn't?"

"Considering you don't have free will, hell no, I didn't think you could."

"Lucifer did it." Fael reasoned. "There really wasn't anything special about him—I mean, other than his utterly asinine desire to be as powerful as God." He shrugged. "Free will is a gift from God, Dean, to _all_ his creatures. Just because we were created to serve, didn't mean we couldn't, or wouldn't, choose to do something different. It simply meant that the consequences were much more...dire."

Dean marveled at that for a moment. Knowing that angels, too, had a choice made certain complications in his life suddenly _less_ complicated. He started to smile.

Then the implications of all Fael had said added up. "You _did_ take those girls," Dean concluded.

"Wow." Fael seemed surprised, and Dean felt an unholy satisfaction at putting him off guard. "I had hoped you'd take a little longer to figure that bit out."

"What can I say? I'm _damned_ good at my job," Dean said, angry. "Why? What do you need to kidnap women for?"

Fael stood and started picking up the plates and bottles to carry them inside.

"Leave the goddamned dishes, Fael!" Dean slammed his fist on the table, rattling the bottles and his plate. "Tell me why you took those women."

Fael glared at him, amber eyes glowing. "Don't be rude, Dean," he said, and murmured something under his breath, before heading through the doors into the kitchen.

Dean opened his mouth to yell at him, but nothing came out. No sound, no breath. Nothing. He tried again. Still nothing. He grabbed his plate and hurled it at the doorway, feeling immense satisfaction at the loud shatter. Fael simply turned and glared at him again. Dean picked up one of his beer bottles to hurl it at his captor. The bottle flew through the air, and then dropped as though it hit some material hanging in the door.

Fael continued to rinse off his dishes and load them into the washer. When he was finished, he left the kitchen to lean on the door jamb. Dean glared at him from his chair at the table outside.

"I made a deal," he said. "I had a job in Heaven. One that I was really, really good at, but didn't enjoy. Angels and gods—yes, gods—would stop for my singing, Dean. I was the angel of music. I wrote the songs the angels sang to worship God. I wrote the songs that announced the birth of the Christ. It was my music after which God modeled the song of the birds, of the wind, of this world. My music was perfect and beautiful and moved the heavens to stillness."

Dean listened, anger boiling beneath his skin, itching at the back of his impotent throat.

"I also had, well, to your understanding the best word for it would be 'fans.' I had one particular fan who stopped everything she was doing when I sang." Fael came back out onto the deck and sat down across from Dean. "I was so good, Dean, she stopped the moon in the sky when I sang." He took a deep breath. "But perfection is not satisfying. You know this; so much of your culture is built upon the futility of Utopia. So I left." He frowned at Dean. "Can you understand that? Doing your job, the only thing you know to do, and longing for something else, even though you are perfection?"

Dean turned away from him, heaved a breath and then another, refusing to answer.

"I think you can," Fael said. Then, "Anyway, I left Heaven and came here. I had been watching humanity from its beginnings." At Dean's incredulous look, he chuckled. "Yes, I'm that old. I had watched you, all of you. Your creativity was wondrous—is wondrous, if you must know. You had none of the talents of Heaven; in fact, your paltry brains do not have the capacity to understand the glory of Heaven or of its music and light and love, but you tried. It wasn't perfect, but it was...sublime in its imperfection.

"At last, I heard the beginnings of the sounds I could be honored to create. So, I left the perfection of Heaven behind to seek the product of grief, of trials and tribulations. Music that had feeling and power in its rawness.

"You weep and wail at things beyond your control, and still you go on. I wanted that... _drive_. The problem was that I was missed. Anumati...have you heard of her?"

Dean frowned and gave a negative shake of his head.

"I thought not. Anumati is one of the goddesses of the moon, Dean. When I sang, she forgot everything to focus on me, including the movement of the moon in the sky. When she found out I had left, she searched for me. It took her a while, about four thousand years, but she eventually found me. She demanded I return to Heaven."

Dean took a breath to speak, but was still held silent. He banged a fist on the table.

"Can you be polite now?"

Dean nodded once, and immediately, like silent thunder, he felt his voice return to him. "But you didn't want to go back. So you made a deal. Sacrifices for freedom."

Fael nodded. "Yes. I agreed to sacrifice five women every two hundred and fifty years to appease her, and she promised to never reveal my location."

Dean shook his head. "Are the women still alive?"

"They are."

"Where?" Dean asked.

"I have a house in town. They aren't in some hovel, if that was what you were thinking. I've spent a long time making a nice place for these women."

"A gilded cage is still a cage," Dean stated.

Fael eyed him curiously, and Dean felt not unlike a bug, pinned and wriggling under observation. Then Fael asked him, "Do you know anything about them?"

"I know enough," Dean replied. "And I know you're still planning on murdering people to keep your ass here. That makes you no better than any other evil fucker I've had to gank." He grew quiet for a moment, trying to calm down before Fael silenced him again. Then, after a couple of breaths, "It doesn't matter how much I _might_ like you—and believe me, the jury's still out on that one, no matter what you think." He looked up at Fael, angry and resolved. "You know I can't let you hurt those people, Fael. I'll kill you myself before I let that happen. And don't think being what you are will stop me."

Fael steepled his hands together. "I know you think you have to try to stop me. But this will happen Dean. Anumati will get her sacrifice, and I will stay here, free and alone if need be. I'll do anything to keep my privacy and the life I've built here." He gave an unapologetic smile. "I won't be going back."

"Why are you even still hiding?" Dean blurted, frustrated. "Don't you know anything about what's going on in Heaven right now?"

"You mean do I know about Castiel leading an army against Raphael? Do I know that my brothers are at war? Do I know that God has left His house in the care of his idiotic children?" He chuckled mirthlessly. "I want no part of that turmoil, Dean. And if they knew where I was, they'd pull me back in."

"Dude. Nobody up there cares about music right now. I know. I've been there."

He held up a hand, warding off Dean's protest. "Oh, Castiel would leave me alone, I have no doubt, but Raphael is ruthless. Always has been. He's a determined archangel with the motive and means to get whatever he wants. If he finds me, if Anumati reveals where I am because I failed to hold up my end of the bargain... Well. I don't have to tell you how that will turn out."

Dean tried to make him see reason. "Fael, they're fighting a war. Nobody's gonna care about you making a choice to abandon Heaven and live out your existence with the dirty mud monkeys."

"Oh. That is a hideous appellation," Fael said, grimacing. "Where did you hear that?"

"Your brother Uriel had several nicknames for us humans," Dean told him.

Fael huffed a laugh. "I imagine he did. He always was a comedian." Shaking his head, Fael said, "I like my privacy, Dean, but make no mistake. Music is not my only talent, it's just the one I chose to pursue. I have other talents, abilities—all of us do—that Raphael will have no compunction about using for himself. I don't want that to happen. I don't want anything to do with the war Castiel and Raphael are fighting."

"Believe me, I understand how you feel, but-"

"None of my brothers and sisters know where I am." Fael interrupted him. "I'd like to leave it like that. If that means taking five women every so often, then that's what I'll do. In the grand scheme of things, though it's not an ideal situation, I don't think it matters very much."

Dean eyed him suspiciously. "You've been down here for how long?"

"Just over six thousand years."

"And in all that time, you haven't learned jack shit about human beings or about humanity." He curled his lip in disgust. "I take back what I said earlier. You're _not_ as smart as I thought."

Leveling a look of sheer menacing power, Feal asked him, "And what lesson was I supposed to learn, Dean Winchester?"

" _Every_ life, Fael, every single breath of every single living person matters. There is no 'greater good.' There is only here. Only now. Only _this_ person. Because the 'greater good' is pointless if there aren't individuals to experience it. Your sacrifices are the total opposite of what you say you admire about humanity."

"What other option do I have, Dean?"

"Unbelievable." Dean wiped a hand over his face. "Here's a thought. You could just gank the bitch."

Fael laughed mirthlessly. "Kill Anumati."

Shrugging, as though it were no big deal, Dean said, "It's what I'd do."

"That's...that's not possible," Fael said, shaking his head.

Dean scoffed. "Fuck it's not. Get me back to my brother and Castiel, and we'll figure it out." Dean sniffed. "It's better than killing five innocent women to satisfy some pagan moon goddess. And I gotta say, I'm gettin' real sick and tired of those pagan gods dickin' around with humanity, like it's their own personal play toy."

Fael laughed. "Yours is a special turn of phrase, Dean."

"You like that?" Dean asked, pointing. "I got plenty more. Now, unless you're fond of killing people, we've got a goddess to catch, and as badass as I am, I can't do that by myself."

"You're saying you and your brother can kill Anumati?"

"You asking me if we can kill a pagan goddess of the moon?" Dean sighed. "And I thought you knew me. We've dispatched a few pagan gods in our time. And a few angels, too, if you must know."

"You've killed angels?"

"Zachariah, for one."

"You killed Zachariah?"

"Yeah. He, uh," Dean scratched his head, "wouldn't take no for an answer. But let's get back to this Anumati chick. If you can fill Sam in on her haunts and what not, he can do some research, find her weaknesses and we can fix your little problem. But before we do that, you have to let those women go."

Fael considered him for a few silent moments, then sat forward. "Okay. Let's go."

That was the only warning Dean got before Fael teleported them over to the place where he was keeping the five women.

When they appeared in the foyer of the house, Dean turned to Fael and said, "You know, Cas usually lets me get prepared before zapping me places." He bent over slightly and put his hand over his stomach. "I'm gonna regret this later, I can just feel it."

Fael chuckled. "Sorry."

"No, you're not, don't bother lying." He straightened back up and took a breath. "So, where is everybody?"

Fael pointed down the hall, "Let's just see," he said and headed toward one of the doorways. "This is the living room," he said, and they stepped into the room. One of the women sat on a sofa reading. She looked up from her book and let out a shriek that left Dean wincing. "Whoa, lady, chill," he said, holding his hands up to placate her. "You're gonna make my ears bleed."

At the sound of her scream, the other women came running into the living room.

"Sela? What's going on?" One of the women called out as she rounded the corner of the living room wall. Dean recognized her from the police report online.

"Chandra Massood?" he asked, stepping forward.

She rounded on him, eyes flashing fire. "Yes," she confirmed, her voice clipped tight with agitation. Then she saw Fael behind him. "You!" she exclaimed, and pointed at him. "Release us, immediately!"

Dean stepped between Chandra and Fael. "Hey, lady. Believe it or not, that's what we're here to do," he said, hands still up in the universal gesture of surrender. "I know you're pissed, but if you'll give me a minute to explain, I think we can end this whole situation painlessly."

"Really? Painlessly? You realize we've been trapped here for days, right?" This from a dark skinned woman in square black glasses.

"I know, believe me. That's why I'm here. My brother and I have been looking for all of you."

"This creep is your brother?" the one in glasses asked him, building up a head of steam that Dean could see he'd have to stop before the situation got too far out of hand.

"No," he said. "No, he kidnapped me, just like he did you. Just..." here he paused, and gave a tired sigh. "Just not for the same reasons." He gave her a friendly smile. "You must be Iahna?"

At the woman's nod, Dean said, "You and the other ladies here are the reason I'm here. It's my job, actually."

"Oh. It's your job to kidnap and hold women for ransom?" Sela asked from her spot on the sofa, her arms folded protectively over her chest.

"What?" Dean asked, confused. "No. No. I came here to help you guys."

"Ah. Well. You'll forgive our skepticism, seeing as you're arrived here with the asshole who took us captive," Chandra said.

"Okay, true. You got me there." Dean said. "But ah, okay. Maybe some introductions. My name's Dean Winchester, I'm _not_ from around here. I've got this guy convinced to let you ladies go. That's why we're here."

Another one of the women walked up and slapped Fael right across the face. "I have a daughter, you jerk. Do you have any idea what she's been going through? What I've been going through, not seeing her?" Her voice broke on the last word, and Dean walked over to her and lifted his hand to rest it on her shoulder. She turned on him. "Don't touch me. I don't know you. What gives you the right to put your hands on me?"

Dean held his hands up again. "Sorry. I apologize." He sighed. "Look, ladies. All I want is to get each of you home. The sooner the better. The best way to do that is for you to trust me."

They looked ready to attack him for his audacity. "I know it's hard. I know you don't know me, but I really am here to help."

"Why are there no doors in this place?" Chandra asked.

Fael finally spoke up. "There are. You just...you can't see them."

"You didn't want us running away," a quiet voice spoke up from behind the other women.

Fael shook his head. "I couldn't afford to lose one of you, Diana."

She held her head up, defiant. "At least you remember our names."

"Your names are one of the reasons I chose you. All of you."

"We're not stupid. We figured that out when you brought the last one." Chandra said, derisive. "What, were you planning to sacrifice us?"

At his silence, she blanched. "You were."

A chorus of disbelief, fear and anger came from the others standing behind Chandra. "You were going to kill us?" "Sacrifice us? For what?" "Oh, my god, my daughter." "Oh, hell no!"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Dean raised his voice to be heard over theirs. "There will be no sacrifices today," he turned and glared at Fael. "Or ever."

Fael looked over at each of the women. "Right," he said, nodding once.

Chandra, as the unofficial spokesperson for the group, narrowed her eyes suspiciously and turned to Dean. "You said to trust you. You getting us out of here will go a long way toward that."

"Right. Like I said, he's letting you go." He turned to Fael. "Show 'em the doors, Fael. Let 'em go. Better yet, just...I don't know what you call it...beam 'em home. Now."

Fael closed his eyes and took a breath.

"Wait." Dean stopped him. "Apologize first. And mean it."

Fael glared at him.

"Hey," Dean said, eyebrows high. "I don't give a rat's ass about your angelic pride or you thinking you're too good to apologizing for hurting these women. You kidnapped them, took them from their families and friends. The least you could do is say you're sorry for it."

"Fine." Fael turned to the women and addressed them individually, as Dean looked on, before he sent each one home to their families.

Once the women were gone Dean slapped him on the back. "Feel better?" he asked.

"I didn't feel badly before, Dean."

"Yes, you did," Dean said, grinning. "Now. Let's go kill a moon goddess."

*****

Sam was on the cusp of one hell of an orgasm, hips rolling under Cas', skin hot and flushed, and every feeling and sensation coiling tight in his gut, collapsing like a black hole at the start of a big bang.

"Jesus Christ, Sam! Not in the front seat! I gotta sit in that- Oh." Dean's disgusted voice startled Sam's climax right out of him. "Terrific," Dean groused. "You're paying to have that upholstery cleaned, buddy."

"Ah, god," he muttered against Cas' lips, and scrambled out from under Cas's body. He hurled the car door open and hurried out. "Dean. Fuck, I'm-"

"Nope. That's what you were doing. In _my car_ , asshole. And who is that, anyway-" he leaned down to peer into the driver's window. "Oh. Oh, no. Please," he said, jerking away from the window to face Sam. "Do _not_ tell me you were dickin' Castiel in the front seat of my car?! Sammy, you son of a bitch!"

"Dean, I wasn't-"

"The hell you weren't. Just...the hell you weren't, Sam. I can't even..." Dean turned and stomped away from the car and Sam and Cas. "Get dressed. Both of you. We've got work to do."

"Dean!" Sam yelled, his voice echoing in the empty lot. Dean just waved a hand, disgusted and angry. "Shit."

"Castiel," another voice broke the new silence.

Sam turned to face it. "You must be Israfael?"

Fael winced. "Whew. It's been a few millennia since I heard that name. You can call me Fael."

"I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you," Sam spat. "You know, my brother and I, we make a living killing evil sons of bitches like you."

"Sam," Cas said, voice calm as he laid a hand on Sam's back. "Go with Dean. Israfael and I will catch up with you both in a few moments."

"Set him straight, Cas," Sam said, straightening his shirt over his chest and ribs. He looked over at Cas, and started at seeing him fully dressed again, as though nothing, none of the moments in the car, had happened. "Cas?"

Cas turned to him, fond smile curving the left side of his mouth. He inclined his head, and there. Sam saw the purpling bruise he'd left just moments before. Rolling his eyes, Cas sighed, then said, "Go. Talk to your brother."

Sam nodded, then took off across the garage, chasing after an angry Dean. Not his favorite pastime. "Dean!" he called out. "Dean! Wait up. I can explain!"

Dean turned and waited for him. "Explain? Really. You can _explain_ why you were doing god knows what with _my_ —with Cas in my car. I have got to hear this."

"Oh. So now he's _your_ angel?" Sam asked, incredulous. If he'd been yours to begin with, this wouldn't have happened! Or, well, that's not exactly true. It might have happened anyway," he admitted, running a hand through his hair. "Cas is..." Sam shook his head and shrugged, at a loss for words. "He's just Cas, Dean."

Stepping up into Sam's space, Dean pointed a finger at him. "Sammy. You're my brother, and I...well...I love you, but if you say another word, I will punch you in the face."

Sam eyed Dean, thinking that they were finally getting to the heart of the tension that had been roiling around the three of them for the last two years.

"What'll it take, Dean?" he questioned, his voice low and antagonistic. "You gonna punch me for telling you much he wanted it, how he was hungry for it, moaning like he was starving for me. You wanna know how he tasted, like sunshine and fresh rain? How salty he is when he's hot for it, how soft his feathers are when they brush against my skin?" Sam taunted him.

Dean's hands curled into fists at his side. "Sam."

"Or how his face looks when he comes." Having found the buttons, Sam pressed harder. "How he wraps himself around you and holds on like he's gonna fall apart, like that shell he wears is gonna crack and everything that he is is gonna spill out and burn you up in an instant. It's bliss, Dean," Sam taunted. "Didn't you know that?"

Instead of punching him, Dean simply muttered an angry, "Fuck you, Sam." Then he turned his back and just walked away.

Stunned, Sam could only watch him go in silence.

There was a rustle of the air around him, and Cas and Israfael were standing on either side of him. Israfael asked him, "What the hell did you say to him?"

"Hm." Cas grunted. "I told you to fix this, Sam," he said, turning an accusatory glare up at Sam.

"I don't know..." Sam turned helpless eyes on Cas. "I almost had him. He was this close to telling me about..."

"Damn, kid. I've only known him for two days, and even I know you don't play Dean to try to force his hand." Israfael glanced over at Cas. "You want me to go talk to him?"

Cas nodded.

"Right." Then, on a rush of air, Israfael was gone.

"Neither you nor Dean do anything by halves, do you, Sam?" Cas asked. "Did it ever occur to you that there was a reason why Dean and I are the way we are?"

"I just thought it was his stupid self-sacrificing nature," Sam answered. At Castiel's confusion, he clarified, "He wants you, but he's afraid to have you, so he doesn't try."

"Oh. Well. I could say the same thing about you." Cas sighed. "If it were that simple, I'd have taken care of this before now. Dean's not ready to accept how he feels about me."

Sam looked at him. "What do you mean?"

"I'm his savior, Sam. And I've given my life at least twice that he knows of, to save his. There is simply too much meaning wrapped up in all of our history for him to accept that what he feels isn't _divine appreciation_ or simple devotion. He has these notions of religiosity that need to be conquered first."

"There's nothing religious about Dean, Cas," Sam said, shaking his head, a rueful smile curling his lips.

"You're missing the point. I didn't say he was religious. Dean has faith. Not because he _believes_ , but because he _knows_. He knows that God is out there. That," here he chuckled, "angels are real. And there's a childhood connection to religion that he can't get past. I have eternity, Sam. I can wait it out." Cas faced him. "You don't have to push him on my account. Though, considering what was—or _is_ —happening between you and I, the gesture is very...generous."

Taking a deep breath, Sam asked him, "So what happens now?"

"With what?" Cas asked.

"Are you and I..?" Sam started to ask, but was unable to finish the question. He didn't know what he was even really asking. He just knew he wanted Cas in a way he hadn't considered before. Still, there was Dean to consider, and he doubted Cas would even be interested, despite the kiss—or whatever it had been—in the car.

Cas smiled up at him. "I think I'd like that."

"So would I," Sam said, a shy smile gracing lighting his eyes. "But what about Dean?"

"Well," Cas said, turning back to watch Dean walking with Israfael. "You put a crack in the armor, Sam."

"Cas. I love my brother," Sam stated.

"I know you do. He loves you, as well." Cas looked up at him, knowingly. "I used to watch him sleep, when I brought him back from Hell. He had nightmares, and I knew how to ease them. It became a habit, watching him sleep, watching over him—a habit for both of us." He paused. "He had dreams. After the nightmares diminished. Dreams about you."

"I..."

"And you have dreams about him."

Stunned, Sam could only stammer, "How...What...How did you-"

"It's all right, Sam. We will deal with whatever comes out of this."

"Okay."

They were quiet for a moment, then two, as they watched Israfael walk away with Dean. After the silence became too heavy, Sam took a deep breath. "So what's up with Israfael?"

"It appears as though your brother is a very persuasive individual. And I am not the only angel he has swayed with his...fervor for humanity's destiny."

Running that through his 'Cas Translator' in his brain, Sam guessed, "He's put us in harm's way, huh?"

Cas didn't answer but for a quirk of his eyebrow.

Hands on his hips, Sam said, "We need a plan."

*****

"So," Fael said, coming up along Dean's side. "Your brother's pretty hot. Castiel, too."

Dean glared at him.

"What? I'm just stating the obvious." Fael smiled to himself. Then he pinned Dean with a knowing stare. "But you already knew that. didn't you."

Thrown, Dean stopped walking. "That's just..." He shook his head, and started walking again, picking up his pace. "No, Fael. I'm not discussing this with you. Hell, I'm not discussing this at all."

"Well. It's either you're pissed because Sam was almost having sex with someone else, which means you want him for yourself."

Dean cut a glare out the corner of his eye, and increased his pace again. Fael smiled, keeping up with him easily.

"Or. You're pissed because he was with Castiel. Now, I don't know if you know what Castiel looks like outside of that vessel—and that is a nice vessel he's got—but I can you tell he's out of this world beautiful. I wouldn't blame you at all for wanting him. Or your brother."

Dean stopped. "You really don't know when to shut up, do you? You freakin' angels, man. Bunch of dicks."

"Well. It comes with the territory. Superiority has its perks." Fael gave him a knowing look. "Besides, you spot it, you got it, you know. And apparently, you like it that way."

"What the hell do you want from me, Fael? I mean, what has this whole thing been about?"

"I didn't think that far ahead, Dean," Fael said. "I mean, I was ready to do what I'd done for the last two thousand years. I had those girls ready, was preparing myself and them for what was to come, then you and your brother came into my bar. And you," he said, reaching up to cup Dean's face, "with your bright green eyes and wicked, knowing smile, yet still abashed. I wanted you. I didn't care about who you were or what you were doing or even that you were with Castiel. You were so damned fresh."

Dean closed his eyes. Memories of Hell, of holding Sam in his arms as he died, of their dad possessed and then gone flashed through his mind. "There's nothing fresh or innocent about me, Fael. I feel, sometimes..." He took a ragged breath. "I feel sometimes like I want to die. Just end it all and let it all fall away. But then I remember that death isn't even an end. This job has taught me that. If it's not God or back door deals bringing you back, it's something else.

When it was just helping people and putting the ghosts and demons in their places, I didn't mind so much. But this epic shit has got to go. I'm...I'm just a guy. And...I'm tired."

"Hmm." Fael pulled him in close and wrapped his arms around Dean's shoulders. "I asked you before if this was the life you'd pictured for yourself. I was stupid. Of course it's not. No one ever sets out to be a savior. Fate, the universe, God puts that on people. You're going to have to come to terms with your life soon, Dean. Otherwise, you're going to be miserable for the rest of your existence, and you won't even have the shred of happiness that is sitting in front of you waiting to be snatched up."

Dean pulled away. "What are you talking about?"

"You'll find out," Fael replied and placed a guiding hand on Dean's lower back. "Now, let's go figure out how we can get the monkey off my back, so to speak."

"I left my stuff back in the car," Dean said. "You, ah, kidnapped me before Sam and I could check into a hotel."

"I think I've got this one for now," Fael assured him, and he guided Dean down the sidewalk to the hotel. "Besides, I think we should give Sam and Castiel a little privacy, don't you?"

"Hell, no," Dean said immediately, tensing up again.

"You're so precious when you're jealous, you know," Fael said leaning forward to tease Dean. "Your face goes all red along the cheeks, and there's the most delicious set of crows' feet at the corner of your eyes." He frowned. "How old are you, anyway?"

"Oh, fuck you, man. I'm a helluva lot younger than you are."

Fael chuckled, an evil sound if Dean ever heard one. "I know. I bet you've still got all that youthful stamina."

"You're flirting again," Dean said, wary.

Shrugging, Fael said, "And you like it."

Dean slid him a sidelong look. "Maybe." He shrugged. "Now that I know you're not going to be killing anybody."

Tossing his head back in laughter, Fael said, "You're jealous and acting out. There's a part of me that should stand up for my self respect, but I'm an angel, I don't have issues like that. I think I'm going to enjoy tonight immensely."

"And who exactly am I jealous of?"

Fael rolled his eyes. "It's both of them, you idiot. You want your brother. I know it's strange and weird and psychologically problematic for you—I'm beginning to think Uriel was right in calling you people mud monkeys the way you mire yourselves in your arbitrary morality—but you want him. And you're so down deep in love with Castiel it's almost disgusting. But he's moving on, in case you're not aware. He's falling for Sam, hard. And if you want to keep both of them, you're going to have to rethink your paradigm."

Dean itched to respond, but Fael held open a door and ushered him inside.

They walked into the lobby of the hotel, and Fael booked them a room for the next couple of days. Dean thought that was probably a good idea, giving them enough time to come up with a plan to lure Anumati out and end her threat, and rest up before leaving town again.

As they walked down the sidewalk to their room, Dean thought about what Fael had said about him being so damned in love with Castiel, and it just didn't sit right with Dean. He waited until the door clicked shut behind him before he said, "I'm not in love with Cas."

Fael just laughed at him, and started taking off his shirt. "Yeah. You are."

Dean paid attention to Fael getting undressed like it was a course in seduction. There was the slow shrug of his shirt coming off his shoulders and sliding down his arms. Fael held it by the collar as he walked over to the table and chair in the corner of the room. There he draped the shirt over the back of the chair. He rolled his neck as though stretching out a kink, but kept his eyes on Dean the entire time.

Dean swallowed. "Cas and me, we're not like that."

Fael nodded his head. "Not yet, anyway," he said as he tugged his t-shirt over his head and folded it casually before setting it on the seat of the chair. Then he toed off his shoes and placed them carefully next to the leg of the table.

"He saved me."

"I know," Fael agreed, hands at his waist, sliding the buttons of his fly out of their holes. He hooked his thumb into the waist band of his jeans and pushed them down hips, over his buttocks, and down his strong thighs.

"No, I mean, he literally pulled me out of Hell, Fael. People say all the time that others have saved their souls, but Cas really did save my soul." Dean sighed, frustrated at not being able to express this clearly. He was also very confused because Fael was now peeling off his socks and stood naked except for his boxers. "Why are you getting undressed?"

"Take off your coat, Dean," Fael said, and Dean obeyed without protest, shrugging out of his coat and tossing it on the bed next to him. "I know exactly what Castiel has done for you, Dean. The question is, do you know why he's done those things?" Fael crossed the room to stand in front of Dean. "Take off your shirt."

Dean frowned slightly, but lifted the hem of his shirt up and over his head, then tugged it all the way off before tossing it on the bed with his coat.

"You can't know, Dean, what it's like for an angel to touch a human soul. It's bliss," Fael whispered, leaning in close to Dean, invading his space and brushing Dean's cheeks with his lips. "It's ecstasy. Your souls are pure energy, pure power, and they hold every thought and feeling you've ever had. Castiel knows exactly who and what you are or ever were Dean."

"No."

"Yes." Fael's fingers eased into the waist of Dean's jeans, tracing along the edge against Dean's skin until they arrived at the button in the front. With a careful flick of his thumb and forefinger, Fael had Dean's jeans unbuttoned and was sliding the zipper down. "Now think, Dean. Why would Castiel, knowing everything about you as he has since that moment he pulled you out of Hell, willingly sacrifice himself twice for you?"

"I don't..." Dean hissed when the tips of Faels fingers brushed through the coarse hair at his groin.

"Do you really think you're that unworthy, Dean?"

That was the question that had plagued Dean since he met Castiel. "I don't know."

Fael sighed. "That usually is a coward's way of saying 'yes.'"

Dean grabbed Fael's wrist and pulled it out of his pants. "Fine. Then yes. I'm not worthy of someone like Castiel. The things, I've done..." he trailed off, head lowered to stare at the floor.

Fael grabbed his chin and forced Dean to meet his eyes. "Castiel knows everything you've done—in your life and in Hell—and _still_ gave his life for you. What more convincing do you need?" Frowning, Fael let him go. "You know what? Don't answer that. Just...take off your boots, Dean. Sit down on the edge of the bed and take your boots off."

"Why?"

"Because I'm going to spend the rest of this night proving to you that, yes, you do deserve some happiness."

And Fael pulled the jeans down Dean's thighs and tossed them over his shoulder. Then all Dean could do was breathe and groan as Fael used every trick of seduction and sex he'd gathered over his millennia on earth to reduce Dean to a quivering mess of nerves and sensation at least three times that night.

The next morning, Dean woke up and sat on the edge of the bed, head in hands, thoroughly disgusted with himself. Fael apparently sensed something was up, because he sat up behind Dean, and draped an arm over Dean's shoulder. "What is it now? I thought for sure I'd worked the kinks out of that horrible self-esteem you have."

"I shouldn't have done this...not with-" Dean stopped himself.

"Not with me."

Dean nodded. "I just...what the hell am I doing here with you?"

Fael sighed. "Well, considering that Sam and Castiel were doing their level best to get over you yesterday, I'd say you're entitled to a little bit of fun—okay, okay. A lot of fun."

"I didn't know. I mean, I was glad when Sam finally loosened up and got his freak on, I was. That's what big brothers are supposed to do. But it sucked, too. Because I... I was just... I always found someone, and it was okay for a while, but..."

"Jealousy's ugly, Dean. Especially when it feels like it's inappropriate. He's your brother, you shouldn't be jealous of him. That's what they say, anyway." Fael shrugged. "Know what I say to that?"

"I have no idea, but I'm pretty sure you're going to tell me." Dean looked at him, shaking his head. "And it's probably going to be irreverent."

"Fuck em. You and Sam are adults. You've sacrificed a lot, some would say too much, for this world. You should do what makes you happy. So people are gonna look at you weird. Who cares? Not like you'll have to live with those people."

"True." Dean agreed, nodding. "Demons and evil sons of bitches, I get. People are nuts."

Fael nodded sagely. "And Castiel?"

Dean sighed softly. He'd heard Fael, understood him, even. But he couldn't help feeling that Cas didn't deserve some low-life hunter who'd already served time in Hell. Cas was a creature of grace and Heaven. Dean knew himself, and he was nothing if not base and ordinary. No way was he good enough to be with Cas. He shrugged and whispered. "I don't know."

"Hm. It seems my work here isn't finished," Fael said, frowning.

"I don't know. I'm pretty sure you were thorough." Dean looked back at him with a self-deprecating smile.

"I know what you are, where you've been. _Castiel_ knows what you are, what you've done," Fael said. "When are you going to learn that none of it matters when contrasted with _who you are_?" He asked,pulling Dean back down into the bed.

Dean looked up at Fael above him, his amber eyes alight with frustration and lust. Dean shrugged. "When I'm dead, I guess," he said. "Besides, if I want Cas and Sam, like you say, don't you think it's wrong to be fucking you?"

Fael rolled his eyes. "You're missing the point," he muttered and pushed Dean over onto his stomach. He slid back into Dean, gliding in on the left-over slick of their earlier fucking.

"I don't think I did," Dean said, hissing at the burn.

"Shut up," Fael whispered against Dean's back and fucked into him, slow and easy, until Dean panted out those hissing little grunts of breath he liked to hear, until Dean begged for it, filthy-mouthed and demanding.

*****

Two days later, and Dean still hated the plan. "I hate this plan."

Rolling his eyes for the hundredth time in the last three hours, Sam said, "We know. Now shut up." He turned to Chandra, Iahna, and Sela. "I'm, I mean, we're sorry-"

Iahna cut him off. "Save it, Sam. We get it. Dangerous mission, little probability of success, no glory and honor. That might have scared off Ceri and Diana, but we're still in."

"That's not fair," Chandra said. "They have children. I wasn't worth the risk to them, and you should understand that, Iahna." She turned back to Sam. "If we do this, then you can guarantee no more sacrifices?"

Fael nodded. "I can guarantee, no more sacrifices to a moon goddess." He gave them each a friendly smile.

Castiel frowned at him. "That's not entirely accurate. There are other gods and goddesses who will probably, at some point demand sacrifices, but it won't be this one."

Sela glared at the two of them. "Jesus," she muttered and turned to Dean. "Is this his idea of a pep talk?"

"What can I tell ya?" Dean answered with a self-effacing smile.

"Ugh. You're all idiots," she said, and sighed. "Just run through it one more time."

Sam nodded and went over the plan again.

*****

Fael ushered out the last of his customers with a pat on the back and friendly smile. "Sure, Greg, see ya Saturday," he said, waving at the people driving through the lot. Once the bar was empty, he locked the door and turned all the lights on. Hurrying through the tables, he shouted, "Showtime!" and headed up to the left side of the dance floor, where Sam had put the summoning materials.

He rushed through chalking the symbols on the floor, and lit two of the candles before heading back into the stockroom where the girls waited with Sam, Dean and Castiel. "Are you all ready?"

Chandra gave him a nervous smile, but hiked two thumbs up. Sela, quiet and subdued, just nodded. Iahna quirked a brow at him, glaring from behind her glasses. "Hell yes, we're ready. Just summon this bitch down here, so I can get home."

Fael chuckled at Dean's expression, then asked him, "You ready?"

"While I'm not jumping on her bandwagon, I say we get this show on the road. Sam?"

"Yeah. I'm good to go," Sam said, rifling through his duffle bag.

Fael watched him a moment. "What are you looking for?"

Sam kept digging, then grinned up at him, pulling out a sheet of paper. "Just getting my notes."

Dean eyed him. "You need notes, now?"

"Shut up, Dean. I've never done this incantation before, and except for exorcisms, my Latin's a little rusty."

Dean clapped a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Okay." He turned to Cas. "We got one shot at this," he said, gripping the iron blade in his hand.

"I am ready, Dean."

Dean smiled at him. "I know," he said, before turning to Fael. "We're ready."

Fael nodded, and holding an arm out, he ushered the women out of the stockroom and into the bar. "Just head over to the candles. Each of you take a space behind one."

"Why is one of them not burning?" Sela asked.

Fael glanced up at her as he bent to light the last candle. "Because the spell starts as soon as the candles are burning. They sort of get her attention. While she may not show just from the lights, her focus will be this way. If I'd left them burning while I went to get you, she would have had a head start on us."

"Oh. That makes sense."

Fael smiled at her. "Each of you pick up your candle and step into the center of your sigil. Hold the candle inside the circle." He waited while they did as he asked. "Okay. It may get a little weird—heavy silence, strange winds, you might even feel a little out of it. Just don't interrupt the ceremony."

They nodded at him, and he began to speak the words to summon Anumati. As he cast the incantation, the lights over the bar flickered out, one by one. Then the silence fell. He knew he was speaking, but there was no sound, it was as though all the atmosphere had been forced from the room. He could see the women's confusion, but he noticed that they didn't speak, and he had to smile. They were definitely well chosen, and if he'd gone through with the sacrifice, Anumati would have been pleased.

As he finished the incantation, the euphoria hit. He threw back his head and laughed, thankful that Sam, Dean and Cas were still in the stockroom. If they'd been out in the bar, their expression of this sensation would have cost them the element of surprise.

He felt giddy, his face hurt from smiling, but he kept an eye on the women in the sigils. Chandra had her head thrown back, arms held high, letting the candle drip its wax onto her chest. Iahna swayed in place, as though listening to some unheard music, her face was alight with joy. Sela's eyes were closed, her face pinched, as though in pain, and her grip on the candle was so tight her knuckles were white.

As suddenly as the euphoria came on, it was gone, and the atmosphere in the bar returned to normal with a gust of wind. The candles went out.

"The agreement was five women, Israfael."

He turned around and faced her. As always, she was beautiful. Her pale, luminous skin seemed to absorb all light in the room and reflect it back, making her appear to glow. Long black hair fell over her shoulders and down her back in waves. Dark green eyes shone from under black winged brows, and her lush lips curled in a wry smile.

"I only see three," she said, advancing on his position.

"And you won't be getting those three," he replied.

She paused in her advance, a frown marring her brow. "You're breaking our agreement?"

"I am," he said, folding his hands in front of him. "I've received a better offer."

The air grew denser, and the lights over the bar's door exploded. The wind began to rush through the bar, blowing through her hair and audibly rustling the dresses Chandra, Sela, and Iahna wore.

"What makes you think I won't kill you where you stand?" Anumati asked him, her hair billowing out around her face.

"Ladies," he said, turning his head to the side and addressing the women behind him, "I think it's time you left."

They put down their candles, and hurried away from the sigils, heading toward the door at the back of the building.

Anumati cocked her head, her eyes going silver. "I don't think so," she said, and lifted her arms. Several chairs lifted into the air, and hurled themselves toward the escaping women.

Fael threw up a shield, and the chairs exploded against it, giving the women time to get away. When the door slammed shut behind them, he let down the shield.

She glared at him, anger pouring off of her in waves.

"No more sacrifices, Anumati. Not from me, not from anyone."

She smiled, evil and glinting. Fael swallowed, girding himself against her pull.

She was beautiful, ethereal and ephemeral, like the moon she represented. There was a reason she demanded sacrifices on the full moon. Any other time and she wouldn't be at her full power. There was always a time table with the pagans. Dates and times and certain places where their power was at its maximum. Anumati knew hers full well, and used it to destroy those who defied her.

She pulled the tide against sailors who scoffed at her. She knew when to put out the light, and let those who didn't believe in her perish in the blackness that night could be. But when she was made manifest, she was her most dangerous.

There was a gravity about her in this form, an irresistibility that drew all who encountered her to her, sealing their fate. She could consume with a thought, leaving her victims in ineffable despair and ruin. She tilted her head and smiled at him again, her eyes slowly going silver. "Come to me, Israfael," she whispered, and it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard. "Sing with me, and let us stop the heavens," she said.

Fael swallowed again. "No," he forced the word out.

She advanced on him again, seeming to float through the bar toward him. He struggled, but held his ground.

"You know you long for it, the sheer bliss of doing what you were meant to do, being what you were meant to be," she said, leaning into his space, brushing her lips against his face. "Come with me, Israfael."

"Don't you know that 'no' means 'no,' lady?"

She turned to the intruders, and just like that the spell she'd been casting was severed. Fael took a deep breath, and almost laughed.

Dean and Castiel stood just outside the door to the stockroom, daggers held casually down by their thighs.

"Now, why don't you be a good little goddess and leave the man alone," Dean said, cocky grin in place.

"And if I don't?"

"Really? That's what you're going with? The whole, 'and if I don't' routine's been done to death." He looked at Castiel and they shrugged. "But if that's your choice," he said, "if you don't, then, well, I'm gonna have to kill you."

She laughed, a tinkling sound, so out of synch with the very sinister nature of her existence. "And what makes you think you can kill me?"

Dean scratched his head. "Wow. You're just chock full of tried and true one liners. Oh, well." He lifted the dagger. "First, I have this handy dagger right here, which, while it won't outright kill you, will incapacitate your freaky white ass. Second, I've got two angels backing me up, so if you _do_ manage to, you know, accidentally smite me, they can heal me."

She launched herself at Dean, flying through the air to land on him, dragging him to the ground with her hands around his throat. He'd dropped his dagger at the assault, and Fael scurried around the bar and grabbed it. Then he and Cas rushed at the two of them.

Fael struggled to pull Anumati off Dean, and almost succeeded. He had her torso hauled off Dean's and was passing the dagger to Dean, when she reached back and gripped her fingers in his hair. She muttered words he couldn't understand, and suddenly he felt pinned, unable to control his vessel. She'd incapacitated him inside his vessel, ripping the filament between his angelic power and his human body. When he could no longer move, she flung him across the bar. He hit the wall and felt several bones break. From then on, he could only listen—he couldn't even see the battle—as Castiel and Dean struggled against her.

Castiel must have understood what she had done to him, and managed, from what he could tell, to stay out of her reach. He heard Castiel cry out a few times, and the sick sound of flesh tearing rent through the air, followed closely by the coppery tang of blood.

Once he heard Castiel cry out Dean's name, and a rage unlike anything he'd ever experienced reared up inside of him. There were more awful sounds of a brutal fight, and finally, the dull thud of a dagger plunging into resistant flesh, then another. And finally silence.

Fael focused his senses on the other side of the room. Then, if he could have, he'd have laughed. Two sets of footsteps, one limping unevenly and heading his way. The other, heavier and solid, moved along the bar.

"Israfael," Castiel grunted, as he approached. He leaned over Fael's broken body, and Fael was surprised at how bloody and torn up Castiel was. Then he placed his first and middle fingers on Fael's forehead, and whispered a few words. Instantly, Fael was back in control of his vessel. He drew a painful breath and thanked Castiel.

Castiel nodded, helped him up, and they both headed back over to Dean and the incapacitated Anumati.

Dean stumbled warily over to the stockroom door and knocked. "Third," he said, as Sam emerged, whispering his own incantation, "I have my brother, who I think is just finishing the spell—incantation, whatever—to render your ass-" Sam stopped whispering and nodded at Dean, "powerless." Then, like someone pulled a plug, everything luminous and beautiful about her just turned ordinary.

Dean and Castiel wasted no more time in killing her, plunging both daggers into her heart, while Sam decapitated her.

Fael collapsed against the wall, unable to stand anymore, his vessel's injuries too great for him to remain. "Dean," he said.

Dean turned to him, eye wide at seeing his condition. "Fael! What...are you okay?" Dean asked, kneeling at his side.

Fael wanted to laugh, but only said, "No. I'm not all right. Not right now." He rested a hand on Dean's thigh.

"You can...you can use me, you know, if you need to. What you said...about energy and all that. I'll let you."

"And yet you insist you can't be good enough." Fael shook his head. "I can't do that; it's too much risk to you. I know where I need to go; I'll be fine." And he left.

*****

"Where will you go?" Dean asked, but it was too late. Fael was gone, the only thing left of him was the empty vessel.

"You'll be all right, Cas. A little rest and you'll be fine." Sam said, his voice worried.

Dean turned around to see Cas' torso resting in Sam's lap. "Cas?" he said and flew over to them, sliding to a stop next to Sam's thighs.

"Is it true, Cas, what Fael said about souls?" Dean asked. "Can it help you?"

Cas looked up at him with tired, wounded blue eyes. "Yes."

"Then do it!" Dean shouted tugging his shirt up. "Take whatever you need."

"What are you talking about, Dean?" Sam asked, confused.

"It's power, it'll help him," Dean said.

"What?"

"A soul," Dean said. "Cas, take it, please?"

"No."

Sam grabbed Cas' hand and held it to his own abdomen. "If you won't take his, then take mine."

Dean looked at Sam, mouth a flat grim line. "Sammy," he said.

"Please, Cas. I want you to," Sam whispered. "I want to help...to know." He pressed Cas' hand harder into his own flesh, and said again, "Please."

Cas pushed into Sam's flesh, and Sam jerked back, as though in pain, but eventually relaxed and slumped over, exhausted.

Cas took just enough to heal the worst of his injuries and withdrew his hand. He cupped Sam's face and whispered, "Thank you," then turned to Dean. "We should leave."

"What about Fael's vessel?"

Cas stood slowly, holding onto his ribs. "Leave it. Israfael will take care of it when he returns."

"He's coming back?"

Cas just leveled a look at him.

"Okay, I get it, he'll be back," Dan said, holding up his hands.

"Help Sam."

Dean leaned over and tugged Sam to standing, knowing it would be easier to hoist him on to his shoulder if he was standing. He grunted under his brother's weight, but managed it. He let Cas lead the way through the ransacked bar, and out to the Impala. Cas opened the back door and pulled at his coat as though to sit in the back seat. "No, sit up front. I'm going to lay Sam in the back; it'll be easier."

Cas nodded and moved out of Dean's way, so he could lay Sam down. Dean tucked Sam's legs up so they wouldn't be crushed when closed the door, and walked around to the driver's side. He looked at Cas across the roof of the car.

Cas stared back at him, silent.

Dean sighed, and broke the eye contact to climb inside the car He waited for Cas to get in, too.

The sat quietly for a moment, then Dean broke the silence.

"Job's done, I guess," he said. Turning to Cas, he shrugged. "Time to head home."

Cas took a break, and without looking at him, said, "I am not your savior, Dean."

Shaking his head no, Dean started the car, gunning the engine. "We're not talking about this. Ever."

"We're not. I am."

"I don't want to hear what you have to say," Dean growled, hitting the gas hard, causing the tires to spin on the gravel a bit before catching and lurching the car forward and out of the parking lot.

"Whether you want to hear it or not, I'm going to say it," Cas said, more than a little irritated. "We've gone too long, doing things your way, at your insistence. It's not working, anymore." He turned and looked at Dean. "I raised you up from Perdition, Dean, but I am not your savior. There is nothing divine or pure about the way I've come to think about you. I don't even know what these thoughts mean."

"Cas, please."

"I want to touch you. Not in some metaphoric way, not in some holy or divine communion with your soul, though that would be nice as well. No, I want to feel your heat on my fingers. I know you'll be soft and firm at the same time, and the way you smell sometimes, is very distracting. It's like...the greenest fields in the middle of spring next to a waterfall."

"That's probably the soap, Cas." Dean said, watching the road.

"This body reacts to those thoughts in interesting ways. It grows tight."

"You mean hard," Dean corrected, mortified and wishing like hell conversation was over, but knowing he wouldn't be so lucky.

"No. Not that. Though I have had several erections thinking about you," Cas assured him, unaware of just what that did to Dean's ability to concentrate. "Making them go away was difficult."

"Jesus," Dean muttered, and wiped a hand over his face. "Cas-"

"No, I mean tight and hollow. Empty and wanting. I've learned what the feeling is, but not what it means."

"You want me to help you, Cas? Because to be honest, I can't." Dean said.

"You mean you won't," Cas told him, and Dean heard the implication that Cas didn't say. _Because you feel it too, and don't want to admit it_. Dean looked at him, and Cas turned to face him. "You...want me. You have for a long time."

Dean turned and faced the road again, looking for the cutoff to the highway. He refused to answer.

Sighing, Cas said, "You deserve to know... I want you, too," and disappeared.

Dean pulled over, and rested his head on the steering wheel. "Fuck, Cas. That's not fair." It wasn't a sentiment Dean was wont to admit, because he knew, more so than most, that nothing you get in life, not the good or the bad, is ever _fair_. But Cas saying those things was just more than he could handle right then. He leaned back against the seat, and sighed.

There was no way he'd be able to drive any kind of distance that night, so he wiped a hand over his face, shook off the daze of Cas' words, and turned the car around, heading back into town to find a motel.

He checked into the first hotel he saw, which was luckily _not_ a dank hole in the wall, but a cozy little ma and pop establishment, with clean quiet rooms and a friendly staff. He realized, when he opened the door, that in his dazed state, he'd forgotten to ask for a double room, and stared at the single bed in the middle of the room. "Dammit." He stepped inside and tossed his and Sam's duffle bags on the chairs by the table, then went out to get his brother, who was still out cold after letting Cas use him for a battery charger.

He carried Sam inside, and laid him as gently as he could on the bed. He took off Sam's boots, coat and overshirt, and debated removing his jeans. Deciding he'd rather have Sam comfortable, and knowing he hated sleeping in his jeans, he made perfunctory work of stripping Sam out of his jeans too. "Sorry, kiddo," he said out loud, "I think you'll thank me in the morning."

When he had Sam situated for the night, he grabbed a fresh t-shirt and boxers from his bag, and went in to take a shower.

He turned the water up as high as it would go, and stripped slowly, checking out every bruise and cut he'd received in his battle with Anumati. There was a dark blue mark on his chest that he knew would be purple by morning. A shallow cut along the back of his arm, where he'd slid across the edge of the bar. Several paler bruises lined his ribs and thighs. It hit him then, seeing all the damage from the fight, how bad he ached and how tired he was. Leaning on the sink, and staring at his reflection in the mirror, he muttered, "It's not the years; it's the mileage."

As he turned away from the mirror, he caught a flash of something dark and purple low on his neck. He examined the spot in the mirror and sighed. It had been a long time since he'd been so out of it to let a bed partner mark him. He lifted his fingers to the spot. As he touched the bruise, he figured out what it was that Fael had been trying to tell him that night. "Huh," he said, and grinned wryly at himself in the mirror, before turning away and stepping into the shower.

The water stung him; the showerhead had great water pressure and tiny holes, so that every drop that hit him was like a stinging hot needle on his skin. It hurt for a moment, and he hissed under the assault, but then the pressure and sharpness started to work like acupuncture to take away the aches and pains of a hard battle. It cleared his mind, and gave him room to think.

Fael was right. He was a miserable bastard. Had been for a very long time. And instead of doing something about it, snatching what little bit of peace he could from his chaotic life, he was almost content to suffer. Like he was meant to be a suffering bastard for all that he'd done. And what was it exactly that he'd done? He was a hunter. He lied, committed fraud, evaded police, and broke the law. All done in the service of his job.

He made a deal to bring his brother back from the dead. You don't deal with demons. Dad always told him that, but then Dad had to go and make a deal with the evil son of a bitch that killed his mom, so maybe he could make deals to save a loved one. So he'd done that. Saved Sam.

And he'd gone to Hell for it.

And spent ten years torturing souls.

But only after he'd been on the rack for thirty years, himself. Anybody would break. Okay, maybe not his dad, what did he know? Alastair could have been lying. Probably was. And why was he holding himself to a dead standard anyway? He wasn't a marine. He wasn't formally trained for that shit. Maybe, he finally admitted to himself—though not out loud—he just wasn't as strong as John Fuckin' Winchester.

Dean squinted his eyes against the pain of that. He wasn't as strong as his dad.

But he'd done more. Killed that yellow-eyed son of a bitch. Saved his brother. Stopped an apocalypse.

Made an angel family.

He opened his eyes. He _deserved_ some fucking good. And if God wasn't going to give it to him, then he was damn well going to take it for himself.

Reaching a decision, Dean finished his shower, scrubbing off the day's grime, and shut off the water.

He dried off, abrading his skin until it was red, then rubbed the towel over his hair. He brushed his teeth, put on his t-shirt and boxers. He left the towel on the floor and crossed over to the bed where Sam lay, unconscious.

Only, now that he really looked, it was less unconscious and more like a deep sleep.

Seeing Sam so relaxed, made him realize how sleepy he was himself, so he pulled back the covers, and climbed into the bed.

For his final act of the day, or the first act of the rest of his life, Dean snatched a little bit of what _he_ wanted. He reached across his brother's body and pulled him close, before stretching out along Sam's longer frame and falling asleep.

*****

Sam woke up hot, pressed into the mattress under an offensive arm. He tried to get up, but that arm pressed tighter against his chest, and a voice murmured a low, "Not yet," next to his ear. Then there were lips on his neck.

Sam jerked away. "Dean?"

Dean lifted his head and frowned at him, his hair sticking up all over his head. "What?"

"What are you doing?"

Dean shoved his face into the pillow and groaned. Then he turned back to Sam and said, matter of fact, "I'm snatching my little bit of happiness, Sam."

"By kissing my neck?"

Dean sniffed. "For starters." And off Sam's incredulous look, he shrugged. "Unless you don't want...you know."

"Are you serious?" Sam asked, voice pitched a little higher than he'd like, but unable to take it back.

Dean's face fell, and he started to roll out of bed. Sam realized how his question sounded, and he knew the ball was in his court now. Dean had made the initial step and thought he'd been rejected. Sam immediately put his hand on Dean's back. "Wait," he said, "I didn't mean that the way it sounded." He took a breath. "I do. Of course I do. I have wanted, for a while." He paused again, letting his voice go low. "Stay."

Dean stared at him, eyes narrow, asking silently if Sam was positive, but his mouth never moved.

Sam put his hand on Dean's shoulder and slid it up and round his neck to bring him down to Sam's level. He kissed Dean's silent mouth, a chaste kiss, lips closed, quick. When he pulled away, Dean's eyes were closed. He smiled. "Stay."

Dean opened his eyes, and settled back down into the bed, draping himself half over Sam, still tentative, until Sam snatched him up and pulled him over on top of himself. Leaning forward, he planted another kiss on Dean's lips, this one nowhere near chaste, but open mouthed, and hot.

When he pulled away again, he asked Dean, "What changed?"

Dean shrugged. Then, enigmatically, replied, "My paradigm."

Sam wanted to ask for clarification, but Dean shook his head, smiling lightly. "Don't ask."

"Okay. I won't. What about Cas?"

Dean took a deep breath, as though preparing himself, and Sam started to smile. "Him, too," Dean said, then looked up at Sam. "If you want."

Smiling, Sam nodded. "Oh yeah," he said, snaking his hand under the edge of Dean's boxers. "I definitely want."

The End

**Author's Note:**

> I seriously want to thank my beta readers who really turned this story around from the bare skeleton piece it was. heard_the_owl, my primary beta, got the first version of this and, holy crap, she whipped my sorry butt into shape. She gave me great ideas and told me what was working and what wasn't and guided me through creating a more fleshed out, well-rounded story. **lavishsqualor** and **special_k414** came through with the spot check at the end. When it was time to nit pick and fine tooth comb it, these ladies stepped in - at the VERY LAST MINUTE - and got all my missing and extra commas, my run on sentences, my misspelled names, and incontinuities. Like, how can Dean finish off a beer he just threw in the trash? Thank you ever so kindly for stepping in and fixing my stupids. I ♥ you muchly for it!


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